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POEMS, 


WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 


OP  THE  I5NER  TBMPEE. 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 


VOL.  II. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  T.  H.  CARTER  St   CO.  BOSTON. 


33cjJton : 

PUBLISHED  BY  TIMOTHY  BEDLINGTON, 

No.  31,  Washington-street. 
J82G. 


V 


SlacR  STick 


^3 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


»»*«#«« 


The  history  of  the  following  production,  is  briefly 
this  :  A  lady,  fond  of  blank  verse,  demanded  a  poem 
of  that  kind  from  the  author,  and  gavd  him  the  Sofa 
for  a  subject.  He  obeyed  ;  and,  having  much  leisure, 
connected  another  subject  with  it ;  and  pursuing  the 
train  of  thought  to  which  his  situation  and  turn  of 
mind  led  him,  brought  forth,  at  length,  instead  of  the 
trifle  which  he  at  first  intended,  a  serious  affair — a 
Volume  ' 

In  the  poem  on  the  subject  of  Education,  he  would 
be  very  sorry  to  stand  suspected  of  having  aimed  hi^ 
censure  at  any  particular  school.  His  objections  are 
such  as  naturally  apply  themselves  to  schools  in  ge- 
neral. If  there  were  not,  as  for  the  most  part  there  is, 
wilful  neglect  in  those  who  manage  them,  and  an 
omission  even  of  such  discipline  as  they  are  suscepti- 


4.  ADVERTISEMENT*. 

ble  of,  the  objects  are  yet  too  numerous  for  minute 
attention  :  and  the  aching  hearts  of  ten  thousand  pa- 
rents, mourning  under  th*»  bitterest  of  all  disappoint- 
ments, attest  the  truth  of  the  allegation.  His  quarrel, 
therefore,  is  with  the  mischief  at  large,  and  not  with 
^ny  particular  instance  of  it. 


CONTENTS. 

The  Task,  in  Six  books.  Page 

Book  I.  The  Sofa, 7 

II.  The  Time-piece,          .        .        -        -  29 

III.  The  Garden,            .        -        -        -  52 

IV.  The  Winter  Evening,         -        ,        -  76 

V.  The  Winter  Morning  Walk,    -        -  98 

VI.  The  Winter  Walk  at  noon,  -  -  123 
Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.  -  -  -  -  155 
Tirocinium  :  or,  a  Review  of  Schools,  -  -  ib. 
To  the  Reverend  Mr.  Newton,  -  -  -  180 
On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  out  of 

Norfolk, 181 

Friendship, 185 

The  Moralizer  corrected,             -        -        -        .  191 

Catharina, -        -  193 

The  Faithful  Bird, 195 

The  Needless  Alarm,       -        -        -    ^  -        -  196 

Boadicea,            ..-.-.-  200 

Heroism, 202 

On  a  mischievous  Bull,  which  the  Owner  of 

him  sold  at  the  Author's  instance,    -        -  205 
Annus  Memorablis,  1789.     Written  in  comme- 
moration of  his  majesty's  happy's  reco- 
very,       206 

Hymn  for  the  use  of  the  Sunday  School  at  01- 

ney, 208 


6  CONTENTS. 

Pago 
Stanzas  subjoined  to  a  Bill  of  Mortality  for  the 

year  1787, 209 

The  same  for  1788, 211 

The  same  for  1789, 213 

The  same  for  1790, 214 

The  same  for  1792,         -----  216 

The  same  for  1793,    -        -        .        -        -        -  218 

Inscription  for  the  tomb  of  Mr.  Hamilton,      -  220 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare,     -        -        -        -       -        •  ib. 

Epitaphium  Alteram, 222 

Account  of  the  Author's  treatment  of  HareS|     -  223 


THE  TASK, 


THE  SOFA. 


ARGUMExVT  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats,  from  the  Stool  to  the  Sofa — A 
Scnoolboy's  ramble — A  walk  in  the  country — The  scene  described 
— Rural  sound?  as  well  as  sights  delijjbtful — Another  walk — 
Mistake  concerning  the  charms  of  solitude  corrected — Colonnades 
commended — Alcove,  and  the  view  from  it — The  wilderness — 
The  grove — The  thresher — The  necessity  and  benefit  of  exorcise 
— The  works  of  nature  superiour  to,  and  in  some  instances  inimi- 
table by,  art — The  wearisomeness  of  what  is  commonly  called  a 
life  of  pleasure — Change  of  scene  sometimes  expedient — A  com- 
mon desciibed,  and  the  character  of  crazy  Kate  introduced — 
Gipsies — The  blessings  of  civili/.ed  life — That  state  most  favour- 
able to  virtue — The  South  Sea  islanders  compassionated,  but 
chiefly  Omai — His  present  state  of  mind  supposed — Civilized 
life  friendly  to  virtue,  but  not  great  cities — Great  cities,  and  Lon- 
don in  particular,  allowed  their  due  praise,  but  censured — Fete 
champetre — Tiie  book  concludes  with  a  reflection  on  the  fatal" 
effects  of  dissipation  and  effeminacy  upon  our  public  measures. 


I  SING  the  Sofa.     I.  who  lately  sang 

Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,*  and  touch'd  with  awe 

The  solemn  chords,  and,  with  a  trembling  hand, 

Escap'd  with  pain  from  that  advent'rous  flight, 

Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme  ;  5 

The  theme,  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 

Th'  occasion — for  the  fair  commands  the  song. 

Time  was,  when  clothing,  sumptuous  or  for  use, 
Save  their  own  4)ainted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth,  10 

Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile  : 
The  hardy  chief,  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Wash'd  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gravelly  banls. 
*  {?ee  Poem?-.  Vol.  I^ 


8  "'the  task. 

Thrown  up  hy  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud. 

Fearless  of  wrong,  repcs'd  his  weary  strenglh.         Jo 

Those  barb"rous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 

The  birthday  of  Invention  ;  weak  at  first, 

Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 

Joint-stools  were  then  created  ;  on  three  legs 

Upborne  they  stood.     Three  legs  upholding  firm      20 

A  massy  tlab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 

On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 

And  sway'd  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms  : 

And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 

May  still  be  seen  ;  but  perforated  sore,  25 

And  drill'd  in  holes,  the  solid  oak  is  found, 

By  worms  voracious  eating  through  and  through . 

At  length  a  generation  more  refin'd 
Improved  the  simple  plan  ;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular,  30 

And  o'er  the  seat,  with  plenteous  wadding  stufTd, 
Induc'd  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue,     • 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought  ■* 

'And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 

'iliere  might  ye  see  the  piony  spread  wide,  35 

jl^lic  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
jjj.apdoo;  and  lambkin  with  black  staring  eyes, 
>^Ai\d»*^arrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 
*V^'  iS^ow  came  the  cane  from  India,  smooth  and  bright, 
^ith  nature's  varnish  ;  sever'd  into  stripes,  40 

That  interlaced  each  other,  these  supplied 
.Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  brac'd 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a  chair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair  ;  the  back  erect 
Distressd  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease  ;  45 

The  slipp'ry  seat  betrayed  the  sliding  part 
Thatpressd  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich  ;  the  rest,  whom  Fate  had  plac'd 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content  50 

"With  base  materials,  sat  on  well-tann'd  hides; 


THE  SOFA.  'J 

Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn. 
Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the  cushion  fix'd, 
If  cushion  might  be  call'd,  what  harder  seem'd         55 
Than  the  firm  oak,  of  which  the  frame  was  form'd. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  fear'd 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  lumber  stood 
Pond'rous  and  fix'd  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbows  still  were  wanting  ;  these,  some  say,      60 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived  ; 
And  some  ascribe  th'  invention  to  a  priest 
Burly,  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
But  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  press'd  against  the  ribs,  65 

And  bruis'd  the  side  ;  and,  elevated  high, 
Taught  the  rais'd  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 
Long  time  elaps'd  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Complain'd,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.     The  ladies  first  70 

'Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleas'd 
Than  w^hen  employ'd  t'  accommodate  the  fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devis'd 
The  soft  settee  ;  one  elbow  at  each  end,  75^ 

And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  receiv'd, 
United,  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne ; 
And  so  two  citizens,  who  take  the  air, 
Close  pack'd,  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one.  EO 

But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame, 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretch'd  limbs, 
"Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days.     So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ;  so  hard 
T'  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world.  85 

Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools, 
Convenience  next  suggested  elbow-chairs, 
And  Luxury  th'  accomplish'd  Sofa  last. 


10  THE  lASK. 

The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hir'd  to  watch  the  sick, 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.    As  sweetly  he,  90 

Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  a  midnight  hour, 
To  sleep  w^ithin  the  carriage  more  secure, 
His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  enjoys  the  curate  in  his  desk, 
The  tedious  rector  drawling  o'er  his  head  ;  95 

And  sweet  the  clerk  below.     But  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead ; 
Nor  his,  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure ; 
Nor  sleep  enjoy  "d  by  curate  in  his  desk  ;  100 

Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  clerk,  are  sweet, 
Compar'd  with  the  repose  the  Sofa  yields. 

O  may  I  live  exemoted  (while  1  live 
Guiltless  of  pamper'd  appetite  obscene) 
From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe  105 

Of  libertine  Excess.     The  Sofa  suits 
The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true  :  but  gouty  limb, 
Though  on  a  Sofa,  may  I  never  feel : 
For  I  have  lovd  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropp'd  by  nibbling  sheep,  110 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs  ;  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk 
O'er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 
E'er  since  a  truant  boy  I  pass'd  my  bounds 
T'  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames  ;  115 

And  still  remember,  not  without  regret. 
Of  hours,  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endear'd, 
How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consum'd. 
Still  hung'ring,  pennyless,  and  far  from  home, 
I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws,  120 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries,  that  emboss 
The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 
Hard  fare  !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 
Disdains  not ;  nor  the  palate,  undeprav'd 
By  culinary  arts,  unsav'ry  deems.  125 


THE  SOFA.  11 

No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return  ; 
Nor  Sofa  then  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 
His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 
Incurring  short  fatigue ;  and,  though  our  years, 
As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away,  130 

And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 
Some  youthful  grace,  that  age  would  gladly  keep  ; 
A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 
Their  length  and  colour  from  the  locks  they  spare ; 
The  elastick  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot,  135 

That  mounts  the  stile  v/ith  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence  ; 
That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 
Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 
Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me. 
Mine  have  not  pilfer'd  yet ;  nor  yet  impair  d  140 

My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  soothd 
Or  charm 'd  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 
Still  soothing,  and  of  pow"r  to  charm  me  still. 
And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks, 
Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive  145 

Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love, 
Confirm'd  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 
And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire — 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 
Thou  know'st  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere,     150 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjur'd  up 
To  serve  occasiocs  of  poetic  pomp. 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 
How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slacken'd  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne  155 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 
While  Admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye, 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 
Thence,  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discern'd 
The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside  160 

His  lab'ring  team,  that  swerv'd  not  from  the  track, 
The  sturdy  swain  diminish'd  to  a  boy  ! 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 


12  THE  TASK. 

Of  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  oer. 

Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course  165 

Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 

Stand,  never  overlook'd,  our  fav'rite  elms, 

That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 

While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 

That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale,  170 

The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds  ; 

Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 

Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tow'r, 

Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 

Just  undulates  upon  the  list'ning  ear,  175 

Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote. 

Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which  daily  view'd 

Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 

Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years. 

Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe.  180 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike  185 

The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind  ; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  flutt'ring,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar  190 

Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighb'ring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green  195 

Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 
But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 
To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one        200 
The  livelong  night ;  nor  these  alone,  wJiose  notes 


THE  SOFA.  J3 

Nice-fingerd  Art  must  emulate  in  vain, 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl,  2Q5 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me, 

Sounds  inh.rmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 

And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Peace  to  the  artist,  whose  mgenious  thought       210 
Devis'd  the  weatherhouse,  that  useful  toy  ! 
Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gath'ring  rains, 
Forth  steps  the  man — an  emblem  of  myself ! 
More  delicate  his  tim'rous  mate  retires. 
When  Winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet,       215 
Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay, 
Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  home, 
The  task  of  new  discoveries  falls  on  me. 
At  such  a  season,  and  with  such  a  charge, 
Once  went  I  forth  ;  and  found,  till  then  unknown,  220 
A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair  : 
'Tis  perchd  upon  the  green  hill  top,  but  close 
Environ'd  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms, 
That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 
Peeps  at  the  vale  below  ;  so  thick  beset  225 

With  foliage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 
I  caird  the  low-roofd  lodge  the  peasant's  nest. 
And,  hidden  as  it  is,  and  far  remote 
From  such  unpleasing  sounds  as  haunt  the  ear 
In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs  230 

Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels, 
And  infants  clam'rous  whether  pleas'd  or  pain'd, 
Oft  have  I  wish'd  the  peaceful  coveret  mine. 
Here,  I  have  said,  at  least  I  should  possess 
The  poet" s  treasure.  Silence,  and  indulge  235 

The  dreaifis  of  fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 
Vain  thought '.  the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 
Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  affords. 
Its  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 
Vol.  If  2 


14  THE  TASK. 

To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  crystal  w^ell ;  240 

He  dips  his  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch. 

And,  heavy  laden,  brings  his  bev'rage  home, 

Far  fetch'd  and  little  worth ;  nor  seldom  waits, 

Dependent  on  the  baker's  punctual  call, 

To  hear  his  creaking  panniers  at  the  door,  245 

Angry,  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consum'd. 

So  farewell  envy  of  the  peasant's  nest  ! 

If  solitude  make  scant  the  means  of  life, 

Society  for  me  ! — thou  seeming  sweet. 

Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view ;  250 

My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us.     Monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Now  scorn'd,  but  v/orthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen  255 

From  sultry  suns  :  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long  protracted  bow'rs,  enjoy 'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us  ;  self-depriv'd 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread,  260 

And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus  — he  spares  me  yet 
These  chestnuts  rang'd  in  corresponding  lines  ; 
And,  though  himself  so  polish'd,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade.  2G5 

Descending  now  (but  cautious,  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep  upcn  a  rustic  bridge, 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ankle  deep  in  moss  and  flow'ry  thyme,        270 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  ev'ry  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  iii  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Kais'd  by  the  .nole,  the  mmer  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unlike  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  Earth  :  and,  plotting  in  the  dark,  275 

*  John  Courtney  Throckmorton,  Esq.  of  Weston  Un'lct- 

M'OOd. 


TPIE  SOFA.  15 

Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile 
That  may  record  the  mischief  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it !  3'et  not  ail  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impress"d  280 

By  rural  carvers,  who  witli  knives  deface 
The  panels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  characters  uncoutli,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  t'  iminortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  e'en  a  few,  285 

Few  transient  years,  won  from  th'  abyss  abhorr'd 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 
And  even  to  a  clown.     Now  roves  the  eye  ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.    The  sheepfold  here  290 

Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field  ;  but,  scatter'd  by  degrees, 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There  from  the  sunburnt  hay  field  homeward  creeps 
The  loaded  wain  ;  while,  lighten'd  of  its  charge,    296 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by  ; 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 
"Vocif  rous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene,  300 

Diversified  with  trees  of  ev'ry  growth, 
Alike,  yet  various.     Here  the  gray  smooth  trunks 
Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine. 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades  ; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood  305 

Seems  sunk,  and  shorten'd  to  its  topmost  boughs. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms, 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar ;  paler  some, 
And  of  a  wannish  gray ;  the  willow  such, 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf,  310 

And  ash  far-stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  ; 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still. 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long  surviving  oak. 


16  THE  TASK. 

Some  glossy  leav'd,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 

The  maple  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts  315 

Prolifick,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 

Diffusing  odov*rs  :  nor  unnoted  pass 

The  sycamo^r-c,  capricious  in  attire, 

Now  greer,.  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 

Have  ch'sng'd  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honours  bright. 

O'er  thr-ic,  but,  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map  321 

Of  hi]i  and  valley  interpos'd  between) 

The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well-water'd  land, 

Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires, 

As  bashfulj  yet  impatient  to  be  seen.  335 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short, 

And  such  the  reascent ;  between  them  weeps 

A  little  naiad  her  impov'rish'd  urn 

All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 

The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now,         33^ 

But  that  the  lord*  of  this  enclos'd  demesne. 

Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns, 

Admits  me  to  a  share  ;  the  guiltless  eye 

Commits  no  VvTong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 

Refreshing  change  !  where  now  the  blazing  sun  .-*    335 

By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 

And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  clime. 

Ye  fallen  avenues  !  once  more  I  mourn 

Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice 

That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives.  340 

How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 

Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 

Re-echoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath 

The  checker'd  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 

Brush'd  by  the  wind.     So  sportive  is  the  light         345 

Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance, 

Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick, 

And  dark'ning,  and  enlight'ning,  as  the  leaves 

Play  wanton,  ev'ry  moment,  ev'ry  spot. 

And  now,  with  nerves  new  brac'd  and  spirits  cheer'd,. 
*  See  the  foregoing  note. 


THE  SOFA.  17 

We  tread  the  wilderness,  v/hose  well-roll'd  walks,  351 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent — give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.     The  grove  receives  us  next  ; 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms         355 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail, 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  on  the  destind  ear.     Wide  flies  the  chaff, 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist  360 

Of  atoms,  sparkUng  in  the  noonday  beam. 
Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down, 
And  sleep  not  ;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it. —  'Tis  the  primal  curse, 
But  soften'd  into  mercy  ;  made  the  pledge  365 

Of  cheerful  days  and  nights  without  a  groan. 

By  ceaseless  action  all  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  th'  unwearied  wheel 
That  Nature  rides  upon,  maintains  her  health, 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads  370 

An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  v.4iile  she  moves  ; 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  World, 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air, 
And  fit  the  limpid  element  for  use. 
Else  noxious  ;  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams,    375 
All  feel  the  fresh"ning  impulse,  and  are  cleans'd 
By  restless  undulation  :  e'en  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm  . 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
Th'  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain,       380 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder :  but  tho  monarch  owes 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns. 
Mure  fix'd  below,  the  more  disturb"d  above. 
The  law,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound,       385 
Binds  man,  the  Lord  of  all.     Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
F'om  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 


13  THE  TASK. 

The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 

When  Custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find,  390 

For  none  they  need :  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 

Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk, 

And  wither'd  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul. 

Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest, 

To  which  he  forfeits  e'en  the  rest  he  loves.  395 

Not  such  the  alert  and  active.     Measure  life 

By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  affords, 

And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 

Good  health,  and  its  associate  in  the  most. 

Good  temper  ;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake,  400 

And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task  ; 

The  pow'rs  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs  j 

E'en  age  itself  seems  privileg'd  in  them 

With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 

A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front  405- 

The  vet'ran  shows,  and,  gracing  a  gray  beard 

With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave 

Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a  coy  maiden,  Ease,  when  courted  most, 
Furthest  retires — an  idol,  at  whose  shrine  410 

Who  oft'nest  sacrifice  are  favour'd  least. 
The  love  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  draws, 
Is  nature's  dictate.     Strange  !  there  should  be  found, 
Who,  self-imprisond  in  their  proud  saloons, 
Renounce  the  odours  of  the  open  field  415- 

For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom  ; 
Who,  satisfied  vvith  only  penciii'd  scenes, 
Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 
Th'  inferiour  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand  ! 
Lovely  indeed  the  rai)nick  works  of  Art ;  420 

But  Nature's  works  far  lovelier.     I  admire, 
None  more  admires  the  painter's  magick  skill ; 
Who  shows  me  that  which  I  shall  never  see, 
Conveys  a  distant  country  into  mine. 
And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls :  425 

But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  mare 


THE  SOFA.  ID 

Than  please  the  eye — sweet  Nature's  ev'ry  sense. 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills, 
The  cheering  fragance  of  Jier  dewy  vales, 
And  musick  of  her  woods — no  works  of  man  430 

May  rival  these,  these  all  bespeak  a  pow'r 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast  } 
'Tis  free  to  all — 'tis  ev'ry  day  renew'd  ; 
Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home.  435 

He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprison'd  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapours,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light :  440 

His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  healthful  hue  ; 
His  eye  relumines  its  extinguish  d  fires ; 
He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — is  wing'd  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  ev'ry  breeze. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endur'd  445 

A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 
Nor  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflam'd 
With  acrid  salts  ;  his  very  heart  athirst, 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possess 'd  450 

With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire  ; 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find — 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns  ;     455 
The  low'ring  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown, 
And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort, 
And  mar.  the  face  of  Beauty,  when  no  cause 
For  such  immeasurable  wo  appears. 
These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair  460 

Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her  own. 
It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 
And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys, 
That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  lif? 


20  THE  TASK. 

A  pedler's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down.  465 

Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb,  the  heart 

Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 

Is  famish'd — finds  no  musick  in  the  song. 

No  smartness  in  the  jest ;  and  wonders  why. 

Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on,  470 

Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread. 

The  paralytick,  who  can  hold  her  cards, 

But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand, 

To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 

Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences  ;  and  sits,  475 

Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a  sad 

And  silent  cipher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 

Others  are  dragged  into  a  crowded  room 

Between  supporters ;  and,  once  seated,  sit, 

Through  downright  inability  to  rise,  480 

Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 

These  speak  a  loud  memento.     Yet  e'en  these 

Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he 

That  overhangs  a  torrent,  to  a  twig. 

They  love  it,  and  yet  loathe  it ;  fear  to  die,  485 

Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  Uve. 

Then  wherefore  not  renounce  them  .'*  No — the  dread, 

The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 

Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame. 

And  their  invet'rate  habits,  all  forbid.  490 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?  That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay — the  lark  is  gay, 
Tliat  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew, 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams  49S 

Of  day  spring  overshoot  his  liurnble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song, 
Himself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 

But  save  me  from  the  gayety  of  those. 
Whose  headachs  nail  them  to  a  noonday  bed  ;  500 

And  save  me  too  from  theirs,  whose  haggard  cyei; 
Flash  desperation,  and  betray  their  pangs 


THE  SOFA.  2i 

For  property  stripp'd  off  by  cruel  chance  ; 

From  gayety,  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain, 

The  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  wo.      505 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change, 
And  pleas'd  with  novelty,  might  be  indulg'd. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade  :  the  weary  sight         510 
Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off, 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  shelter'd  vale, 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Delight  us  ;  happy  to  renounce  awhile,  515 

Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love. 
That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please, 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man.     His  hoary  head,  520 

Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.     At  his  waist 
A  girdle  of  half-wither'd  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die.  525 

The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform'd, 
And  dang'rous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom. 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ;  there  the  turf  530 

Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  m  odorif'rous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sv\^eets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimm'd  535 

With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband  bound, 
A  serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  follow'd  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores ;  and  she  would  sit  and  weep       540 


22  THE  TASK. 

At  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;  fancy  too, 

Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 

Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 

And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 

She  lieard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death —  545 

And  never  smil'd  again  !  and  now  she  roams 

The  dreary  waste  ;  Ihere  spends  the  livelong  day, 

And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids. 

The  livelong  night.     A  tatter'd  apron  hides, 

"Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown  550 

More  tatter'd  still ;  and  both  but  ill  conceal 

A  bosom  heav'd  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 

She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets. 

And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  ;  but  needful  food,  554 

Though  press'd  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 

Though  pinch'd  with  cold,  asks  never. — Kate  is  craz'd. 

I  see  a  column  of  slow  rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood,  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung  5G0 

Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse. 
Receives  the  )norsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog. 
Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloin'd 
From  his  accustom 'd  perch.     Hard  faring  race  ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  ev'ry  hedge,  5G5 

Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquench'd 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  flutt'ring  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin. 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim.     ' 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistr}',  and  more  570 

To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch. 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place  ; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 
Strange  !  that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  sliould  brutalize  by  choice  575 

His  nature  ;  and,  though  capable  of  arts, 
By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself 
Self-banish'd  from  society,  prefer 


THE  SOFA.  23 

Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil  ! 

Yet  even  these,  though  feigning  sickness  oft  580 

They  swatlie  the  forehead;  drag  the  limping  limb. 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 

Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note, 

VVben  safe  occasion  offers ;  and  with  dance, 

And  musick  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag,  585 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 

Such  health  and  gayety  of  heart  enjoy 

The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world  ; 

And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wand'ring  much, 

Need  other  physick  none  to  heal  th'  effects  59C 

Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguish'd  from  the  crowd 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dvv'ells  secure. 
Where  man  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn, 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life.  59G 

His  wants  indeed  are  many  ;  but  supply 
Is  obvious,  plac'd  wdthin  the  easy  reach 
Of  temp'rate  wishes  and  industrious  hands. 
Here  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil ;  GOO 

Not  rude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns, 
And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs, 
(If  e'er  she  spring  spontaneous,)  in  remote 
And  barb'rous  climes,  where  violence  prevails, 
And  strength  is  lord  of  all  ;  but  gentle,  kind,  G05 

By  culture  tam'd,  by  liberty  refresh'd, 
And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matur'd. 
War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole  ; 
War  foUow'd  for  revenge  or  to  supplant 
The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  sj)ot :  610 

The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust ! 
His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 
Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 
Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school,  in  which  he  learns 
Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate,  615 

Monn  self-aita^hment.  and  scarce  ausrht  beside. 


24  THE  TASK. 

Thus  fare  the  shiv'ring  natives  of  the  north, 

And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 

Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep, 

Tow'rds  the  antarctick.     E'en  the  favour'd  isles     C20 

So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 

Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile, 

Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ;  and  inert 

Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 

In  manners — victims  of  luxurious  ease.  C25 

These  therefore  1  can  pity,  plac'd  remote 

From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 

Or  inspiration  teaches  ;  and  enclos'd 

In  boundless  oceans  never  to  be  pass'd 

By  navigators  uninform'd  as  they,  C30 

Or  plough'd  perhaps  by  British  bark  again . 

But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  with  most  cause, 

Thee,  gentle  savage  !*  whom  no  love  of  thee 

Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps, 

Or  else  vain  glory,  prompted  us  to  draw  635 

Forth  from  thy  native  bow'rs,  to  show  thee  here 

With  what  superiour  skill  we  can  abuse 

The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past ;  and  thou  hast  found  again 

Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams,  640 

And  homestall  thatch'd  with  leaves.     But  hast  thou 

found 
Their  former  charms  .''  And,  having  seen  our  state, 
Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 
Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports, 
And  heard  our  musick  ;  are  thy  simple  friends,       645 
Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  once  .'  And  have  thy  joys 
Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? 
Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  return'd  thee  rudo 
And  ignorant,  except  of  outward  show,)  650 

I  cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 
And  spiritless,  as  nevor  to  regret 
*  Omai. 


THE  SOFA.  25 

Sweets  lasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  straying  on  the  beach, 

And  asking  of  the  surge,  that  bathes  thy  foot,         655 

If  ever  it  has  wash'd  our  distant  shore. 

I  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 

A  patriots  for  his  country  :  thou  art  sad 

At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 

From  which  no  pow'r  of  thine  can  raise  her  up.      660 

Thus  fancy  paintsthee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 

Perhaps  errs  little,  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 

She  tells  me  too,  that  duly  ev'ry  morn 

Thou  climbst  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 

Exploring  far  and  wide  the  wat'ry  waste  665 

For  sight  of  ship  from  England.     Ev'ry  speck 

Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 

With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears. 

But  comes  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 

And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepar'd  670 

To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied. 

Alas  I  expect  it  not.     We  found  no  bait 

To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.     Doing  good. 

Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 

We  travel  far,  'tis  true,  but  not  for  nought ;  675 

And  must  be  brib'd  to  compass  Earth  again 

By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 

Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there,    660 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud,  and  gay, 
And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow. 
As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sewer, 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 
In  cities,  foul  example  on  most  minds  685 

Begets  its  likeness.     Rank  abundance  breeds, 
In  gross  and  pamper 'd  cities,  sloth,  and  lust, 
And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities,  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 
Or  seen  with  least  reproach  ;  and  virtue,  taught    690 

Vor.,  IT.  3 


26  THE  TASK. 

By  frequent  lapse,,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 

Beyond  th'  achievement  of  successful  flight. 

I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 

In  which  they  flourish  most  ;  where  in  the  beams 

Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye  695 

Of  publick  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 

Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaim'd 

The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 

There  touch'd  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes   700 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.     Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone  705 

The  pow'rs  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much  ; 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 

So  sterile  with  what  charms  sooer  she  will,  710 

The  richest  scenerj'  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

"Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots  .' 

In  London.     Where  her  implements  exact,  7J5 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans, 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world  .' 

In  London.     Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 

So  rich,  so  throng'd,  so  drain'd,  and  so  supplied,      720 

As  London — opulent,  enlarg'd,  and  still 

Increasing  London  ?  Babylon  of  old 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  Earth,  than  she, 

A  more  accomplish'd  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two,     725 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge  ; 
And  show  this  queen  of  citie?,  that  so  fair, 
Mav  vet  be  foul  ;  so  wittv-  vet  v.o\  wisr>. 


THE  SOFA.  27 

It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 

That  she  is  slack  in  discipline  ;  more  prompt  730 

T"  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law : 

That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 

On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life, 

And  liberty,  and  ofttimes  honour  too, 

To  peculators  of  the  public  gold  :  735 

That  thieves  at  home  must  hang  ;  but  he  that  puts 

Into  his  overgorg'd  and  bloated  purse 

The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 

Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 

That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt  740 

Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presum'd  t'  annul 

And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may. 

The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God  ; 

Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 

And  centring  all  authority  in  modes  745 

And  customs  of  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 

Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms, 

And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigh  divorc'd. 

God  made  the  countr}',  and  man  made  the  town. 
What  wonder  then  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts       750 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threaten'd  in  the  fields  and  groves  ? 
Possess  ye,  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue  755 

But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element,  thoro  only  can  ye  shine  ; 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon  760 

The  pensive  wand'rer  in  their  shades.     At  eve 
The  moon-beam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  musick.     We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps  ;  they  but  eclipse        765 
Onr  softer  satellite.     Your  songs  confound 


28  THE  TASK. 

Our  more  harmonious  notes  :  the  thrush  departs. 
Scar'd,  and  th'  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  publick  mischief  in  your  mirth ; 
It  plagues  your  country.     Folly  such  as  yours,       770 
Grac'd  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure  soon  to  fall. 


THE  TASK. 


THE  TIME-PIECE. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK. 

Reflections  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of  the  former  book — Peace 
among  the  nations  reconiineuiied  on  the  ground  of  their  common 
fellowship  in  sorrow — Prodigies  enumerated — Sicilian  earth- 
Huake-i — Man  rendered  obnoxious  to  these  calainities  by  sin — 
God  the  agent  in  the!'!— The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary 
(•auses  re()rov9d — Our  own  late  miscarriages  accounied  for — 
Satirical  notice  taken  of  our  trips  to  Fontainbleau — But  the 
])uli)it,  not  satire,  the  proper  engine  of  reformation — The  Rove- 
rend  Advertiser  of  engraved  sermons — Petit-maitre  parson — The 
good  preacher — Picture  of  a  theatrical  clerical  coxcomb — Story- 
tellers and  jesters  in  the  pulpit  reproved — Apostrophe  to  popular 
applause — jtetailers  of  ancient  philosophy  expostulated  with — 
Sum  of  the  whole  matter — Effects  of  sacerdotal  mismanagement 
on  the  laity — Their  folly  and  extravagance — The  mischiefs  of 
profusion — Profusion  itself  with  all  its  consequent  evils,  ascribed, 
as  to  its  principal  cau-ie,  to  the  want  of  discipline  in  the  univer- 
sitioi. 


O  FOR.  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wildernesSj 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more  !  My  ear  is  pain'd,  5 

My  soul  is  sick  with  ev'r}"^  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  eartli  is  fiU'd. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart ; 

It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 

Of  brothcrliood  is  several;  as  the  flax',  JO 


00  THE  TASK. 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  colour'd  like  his  own  ;  and  having  powr 

T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 

Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  a  lawful  prey.  15 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 

Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interpos'd 

Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 

Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ;  20 

And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd, 

As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 

With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart, 

Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast.  25 

Then  what  is  man  ?  And  what  man,  seeing  this, 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

1  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,  30 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  aH  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estunation  priz'd  above  all  price, 
1  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave,  35 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home. — Then  why  abroad  .'' 
And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  oer  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosd. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs     40 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  : 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it,  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'ry  vein  45 

Of  all  your  empire  ;  that,  where  Britain's  pow'r 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 
Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  '31 

Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations,  in  a  world  that  seems  50 

To  toll  the  death-bell  of  its  own  decease, 
And  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements 
To  preach  the  gen'ral  doom*     When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  ? 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap  55 

Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  ? 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  nieteorst  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplain'd. 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies  ;  and  th'  old 
And  crazy  Earth  has  had  her  shaking  tits  60 

More  frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 
Is  it  a  time  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  Nature  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eyet 
To  wait  the  close  of  all  ?  But  grant  her  end  65. 

More  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unacconiplisii'd  yet ; 
Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  his  breast  who  smites  the  Earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice.  70. 

And  'tis  but  seemly,  that,  whire  all  deserve 
And  stand  expos'd  by  common  peccanc)^ 
To  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily  !  rude  fragments  now  T^o 

Lie  scatter'd,  where  the  shapely  columns  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.     In  all  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.     Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show, 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause  ;  80 

While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  earth  receive  him  1  with  what  signs 

*  Alluding  to  the  calamities  in  Jamaica, 
t  August,  18,  1783. 

t  Alluding-  to  the  fog  that  covered  both  Europe  and  Asia 
rfurins  the  whole  gummer  of  1783. 


1?2  THE  TASK. 

Of  gratulallon  and  deliglit  her  king  ': 

Pours  she  not.  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad,  85 

Her  sweetest  fiow'rs,  her  aromatick  gums, 

Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  he  treads  ? 

She  quakes  at  his  approach.     Her  hollow  womb, 

Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 

And  fiery  caverns  roars  beneath  his  foot.  90 

The  hills  move  lightly,  and  the  mountains  smoke, 

For  lie  has  touchd  them.     From  th'  e.xtremest  point 

Of  elevation  down  into  the  a])yss 

His  wrath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  ^dt. 

The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valley.s  rise,  05 

The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 

And,  charg'd  with  putrid  verdure,  hreatlic  a  gross 

And  mortal  nuisance  into  ail  the  air. 

What  solid  v/as,  by  transformation  strange. 

Grows  fluid  ;  and  tlie  fix'd  and  rooted  earth,  100 

Tormented  into  ])illows,  heaves  and  swells, 

Or  with  vortiginous  and  hideous  whirl 

Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.     Immense 

The  tumult  and  tbe  overthrow,  the  pangs 

And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute  105 

Multitudes,  fugitive  on  evry  side. 

And  fugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 

Migrates  uplifted  :  and,  with  all  its  soil 

Alighting  in  far  <listar.t  fields,  finds  out 

A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change.  ]  10 

Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 

To  an  enormous  and  o'erbcaring  height. 

Not  by  a  migiity  wind,  but  by  that  voice 

Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  tiie  shore 

Resistless.     Never  such  a  sudden  flood,        ^  115 

Upridg'd  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge, 

Possess'd  an  inland  scene.     AViiere  now  the  throng 

That  press'd  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 

Look'd  to  the  sea  for  safety  .^  They  are  gone, 

Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep —  ISO 

A  prince  v/ith  half  his  people '  Ancient  tow'rs, 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  33 

And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes 

Where  beauty  oft  and  letter'd  worth  consume 

Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 

Fall  prone  :  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth,  1.25 

And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 

From  all  the  rigours  of  restraint,,  enjoy 

The  terrours  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 

Who,  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 

Freedom  !  whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret,        130 

That  een  a  judgment,  making  way  for  thee, 

Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake  ? 

Such  evil  Sin  hath  wrought  ;  and  such  a  flame 

Kindled  in  Heav'n,  that  it  burns  down  to  Earth, 

And  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes  135 

On  God's  behalf,  lays  was.^  nis  fairest  works. 

The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 

The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants, 

Conspire  against  him.     With  his  breath  he  draws 

A  plague  into  his  blood  ;  and  cannot  use  140 

Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 

Storms  rise  t'  o'erwhelm  him  ;  or  if  stormy  winds 

Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise, 

And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 

Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there.  145. 

The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds, 

Or  make  his  house  his  grave  :  nor  so  content. 

Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood, 

And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 

What  then  1 — were  they  the  wicked  above  all,         150 

And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchor'd  isle 

Mov'd  not,  while  theirs  was  rock'd,  like  a  light  skiff, 

The  sport  of  every  wave  ?  No  ;  none  are  clear, 

And  none  than  we  more  guilty.     But,  where  all 

Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts  155 

Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark  : 

May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  warn 

The  more  malignant.    If  he  spar'd  not  thenv, 


34  THE  TASK. 

Tremble  and  be  amaz'd  at  thine  escape, 

Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  thee  !  160 

Happy  the  man,  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  lite  ! 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  tlie  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme.  165 

Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  ;  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate  ;.)  could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  tliwart  his  plan  ;  170 

Then  God  might  be  surprisd,  and  unforeseen 
Contingencc  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks  ;  175 

And,  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets, 
Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies  the  power  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men, 
That  live  an  atheist  life  ;  involves  the  Heavens       180 
lu  tempests  ;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  bile  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health. 
He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend  185 

Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivell'd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  his  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  Philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs,  190 

And  principles  ;  of  causes  how  they  work 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects 
Of  action  and  reaction  :  he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels, 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear.        195 


THE  TliME-PIECE.  .3^ 

Thou  fool  ?  will  thy  discov'ry  of  the  cause 
Suspend  th'  effect,  or  heal  it  ?  Has  not  God 
Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world  ? 
And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 
To  drown  it  ?  What  is  his  creation  less,  200 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means, 
Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 
Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve  ;  ask  of  Him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught  ; 
And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all.    205 

England,  wnth  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still — 
My  country  !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left, 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrain'd  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deform'd  210 

With  dripping  rains,  or  wither 'd  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies. 
And  fields  without  a  flow'r,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines  :  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bow'rs.  213 

To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task : 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a  heart  220 

As  any  thund'rer  there.     And  I  can  feel 
Thy  follies  too  ;  and  with  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 
P^eflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I  love. 
How  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense,  223 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenc'd  o'er 
AViih  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet ; 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 
And  love  when  they  should  fight  :  when  such  as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark  231 

Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 
Time  was  v/hcn  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 


30  THE  TASK. 

In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 

That  we  were  born  her  children.     Praise  enough  235 

To  fill  th'  ambition  of  a  private  man 

That  Chatliam's  language  was  his  mother-tongue, 

And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 

Farewell  those  honours,  and  farewell  with  them 

The  hope  of  such  hereafter  !  They  have  fall'n         240 

Each  in  his  field  of  glory  ;  one  in  arms, 

And  one  ni  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 

Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won, 

And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  I 

They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham,  still         245 

Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 

Secur'd  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown, 

If  any  wrongd  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 

TJiat  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force,  250 

And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  lov'd. 

Those  suns  are  set.     O  rise  some  other  such  ? 

Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 

Of  old  achievements  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float     255 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.     Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savour  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  !  Breathe  soft, 
Ye  clarionets  ;  and  softer  still,  ye  flutes  ;  260 

That  winds  and  waters,  lull'd  by  magick  sounds, 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore. 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True,  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 
That  pick'd  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown,       265 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew. 
And  let  that  pass — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state— 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war. 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friends  embrace.  270 

And  sliam'd  as  we  have  been,  to  th'  very  beard 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  37 

Brav'd  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  provd 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows  that  once 
Ensur'd  us  mast'ry  tliere,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence  ;  we  justly  boast  27i 

At  least  superiour  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honours  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own  ! 
Go,  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 
And  show  the  shame  ye  niight  conceal  at  home, 
In  foreign  eyes  ! — be  grooms  and  win  the  plate,      2b0 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crown  ' — 
'Tis  gen'rous  to  communicate  }t»ur  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learn'd  : 
And  under  such  preceptors  who  can  fail .' 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetick  pains,  2S5 

Which  only  poets  know.     The  shifts  and  turns, 
Th'  expedients  and  inventions  multiform. 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms, 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win — 
T'  arrest  the  fleeting  images,  that  fill  230 

The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast, 
And  force  them  sit,  till  he  has  pencil'd  oft' 
A  faithful  lilieness  of  the  forms  he  views  ; 
Then  to  dispose  iiis  copies  with  such  art, 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light,  295 

And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labour  and  the  skill  it  cost ; 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought, 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import,        30O 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man  1 
He  feels  the  anxieties  of  life  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment  ;  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.     But  ah  !  not  such, 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song.  305 

Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haplv  find 

Vol.  H  4  '  " 


38  THE  TASK. 

Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most.    310 

But  is  amusement  all  ?  Studious  of  song, 

And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 

I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 

Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 

Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ?  315 

It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 

The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress, 

Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch; 

But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found  ? 

What  vice  has  it  subdued  .''  whose  heart  reclaim'd  320 

By  rigour,  or  whom  laugh'd  into  reform.'' 

Alas  !  Leviathan  is  not  so  tam'd  : 

Laughd  at,  he  laughs  again  ;  and  stricken  hard, 

Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 

That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands.  325 

The  pulpit,  therefore — (and  I  name  it  fill'd 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing) — 
The  pulpit — (when  the  safrist  has  at  last, 
Strutting  and  vapring  in  an  empty  school,  330 

Spent  all  his  force,  and  made  no  proselyte^ 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate  peculiar  pow'rs) 
Must  stand  acknowledg'd,  while  the  world  shall  stand, 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard,  335 

Support,  and  ornament,  of  Virtues  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth  ;  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies  I — His  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out  340 

Its  thunders  :  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  'stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak. 
Reclaims  the  wand'rer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 
And,  arm'd  himself  in  panoply  complete  345 

Of  heav'nly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  39 

Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war 
The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect :  349 

Are  all  such  teachers  ? — would  to  Heav'n  all  were  ! 
But  hark — the  doctors  voice  I — fast  wedg'd  between 
Two  empiricks  he  stands,  and  with  swoln  cheeks  • 
Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.     Keener  far 
Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 
While  through  that  publick  organ  of  report  355 

He  hails  the  clergy  ;  and,  defying  shame. 
Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs  ! 
He  teaches  those  to  read  whom  schools  dismiss'd, 
And  colleges,  untaught :  sells  accent,  tone, 
And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  pray'r  360 

Th'  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 
He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 
Down  into  modern  use  ;  transforms  old  print 
To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 
Of  gall'ry  critics  by  a  thousand  arts.  365 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware .'' 
O,  name  it  not  in  Gath  ! — it  cannot  be, 
That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 
He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 
Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before —  370 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church ! 
I  venerate  the  man,  whose  heart  is  warm. 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life, 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 

That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause.  375 

To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals  and  in  manners  vain. 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse  ;  380 

Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes ; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card ; 
Constant  at  routSj  familiar  with  a  round  385 


40  THE  TASK 

Of  ladyships,  a  stranger  to  tlie  poor  ; 

Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 

And  well  prepar'd,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 

B}'  infidelity  and  love  of  world, 

To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure  ;  a  slave  390 

To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride  ', 

From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  heads, 

Preserve  tlie  church  !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 

On  skulls  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul,  395 

"Were  he  on  Earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere  ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt  ;  in  language  plain,  400 

And  plain  in  manner  ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture  ;  much  impress'd 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too  ;  affectionate  in  look,  405 

And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  ! — Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again  ;  pronounce  a  text ;        410 
Cry — hem  ;  and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene  ! 

In  man  or  woman,  but  Jar  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers  415 

And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  ; 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What ! — will  a  man  play  tricks — v.'ill  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form,  430 

And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien. 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  41 

As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes,  425 

When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth. 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude  and  stare,  430 

And  start  theatrick.  practis"d  at  the  glass ! 
I  seek  divine  r-implicity  in  liim 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learn  d  with  labour,  and  though  much  admit  a 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-inform'd,  435 

To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle  where  worthy  men, 
Mi-sled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  press'd  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 
Some,  decent  in  demeanour  while  they  preach,       440 
That  task  perform'd,  relapse  into  themselves  ; 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  ev'ry  eye, 
Whoe'er  was  edify 'd,  themselves  were  not ! 
Forth  comes  the  pocket-mirror.     First  we  stroke    445 
An  eyebrow  ;  next  compose  a  straggling  lock  ; 
Then  with  an  air  most  gracefully  perform'd, 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm. 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low  ;  450 

The  better  hand  more  busy  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  th'  indebted  eye 
With  op'ra  glass,  to  watch  the  moving  scene, 
And  recognise  the  slow  retiring  fair. — 
Now  this  is  fulsome  ;  and  offends  me  more  455 

Than  in  a  churchman  slovenly  neglect 
And  rustic  coarseness  would.     A  heavenly  mind 
May  be  indifFrent  to  her  house  of  clay. 
And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care  ; 
But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim,  460 

4« 


42  THE  TASK. 

And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 
Can  lodge  a  heav'nly  mind — demands  a  doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware  465 

Of  lightness  in  his  si>eech.     'Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul : 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetick  exhortation  ;  and  t'  address 
The  skittish  fanc}''  w:th  facetious  tales,  470 

When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart ! 
So  did  not  Paul.     Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  3'our  test, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail.  475 

ISo  :  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms. 
That  he  had  ta'on  in  charge.     He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits, 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assail'd  in  vain.  480 

O  Popular  Applause  !  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  cliarms  .' 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales ; 
But  swell'd  into  a  gust — who.  then,  alas  !  485 

With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert, 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  pow'r  ? 
Praise  from  the  rivell'd  lips  of  toothless,  bald 
Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  Poverty,  and  in  the  bow  490 

Respectful  of  the  smutch'd  artificer. 
Is  oft  too  welcome  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.     17 ow  much  more, 
Pour'd  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite, 
In  language  soft  as  Adoration  breathes  'f  495 

Ah,  spare  your  idol,  think  him  human  still. 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too  ! 
Dote  not  too  much  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 


THE  TLME-PIECE.  43 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.     But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome,  500 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.     More  favour 'd,  we 
Drink  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain  head. 
To  them  it  flowd  much  mingled  and  defil'd 
With  hurtful  errour,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  calld,  505 

But  falsely.     Sages  after  sa^^es  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  otf  a  crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanc'd 
The  thirst  than  slakd  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild.  510 

In  vain  they  push'd  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And  spring-time  of  the  world ;  ask'd,  Whence  is  man  ? 
Why  formd  at  all  '  and  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 
Where  must  he  find  his  maker  ?  with  what  rites 
Adore  him  .'  Will  he  hear,  accept,  and  bless  .^  515 

Or  does  he  sit  regardless  of  his  works .'' 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed  .'' 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all .'  If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where  .''  and  in  what  weal  or  wo .' 
Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone  520 

A  Deity  could  solve.     Their  answers,  vague 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark. 
Left  them  as  dark  themselves.     Their  rules  of  life 
Defective  and  unsanctiond,  provd  too  weak 
To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead  525 

Blind  nature  to  a  God  not  yet  reveal'd. 
'Tis  Revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 
Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own, 
And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life 
That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more.  530 

Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  sir, 
My  man  of  morale,  nurlur'd  in  the  shades 
Of  Academus — is  this  false  or  true  ? 
Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher  or  the  schools 
If  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  ev'ry  turn  535 

To  Athens,  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  shore 


44  THE  TASK. 

Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  him  reside 

Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — an  unfathom'd  store  ? 

How  oft,  when  Paul  has  serv'd  us  with  a  text, 

Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully,  preach'd  !  540 

Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 

And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth. 

Preach  it  who  might.     Such  was  their  love  of  truth, 

Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candour  too. 

And  thus  it  is. — The  pastor,  either  vain  545 

hy  nature,  or  by  flatt'ry  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  his  own  splendour,  and  t'  exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  office,  but  himself; 
Or  unenlighten  d  and  too  proud  to  learn; 
Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach  }  550 

Perverting  often  by  the  stress  ot  lewd 
And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct ; 
Exposes,  and  holds  up  to  broad  disgrace, 
The  noblest  function,  and  discredits  much 
The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen.  555 

For  ghostly  counsel ;  if  it  either  fall 
Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back'd 
With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 
Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part ; 
Or  be  dishonour'd  in  th'  exteriour  form  560 

And  mode  of  its  conveyance,  by  such  tricks 
As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 
And  histrionick  mumm'ry  that  let  down 
The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage  ; 
Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregarded  thing.  565 

The  weak  perhaps  are  mov'd,  but  are  not  taught 
While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 
Takes  deeper  root,  confirmed  by  what  they  see 
A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 

Upon  the  roving  and  untutor'd  heart  570 

Soon  follows,  and,  the  curb  of  conscience  snappd 
The  laity  run  wild.     But  do  they  now  -" 
Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinc'd. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  45 

A  wooden  one  :  so  we,  no  longer  taught  575 

By  monitors,  that  mother  church  supplies, 
Now  make  our  own.     Posterity  will  ask, 
(If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine,) 
Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence. 
What  was  a  monitor  in  George's  days  .'  580 

My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 
Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things, 
Since  Heav'n  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a.  world 
Productive  only  of  a  race  like  uurs, 
A  monitor  is  v/ocd — plank  sharcn  thin.  585 

We  wear  it  at  our  backs.     There,  closely  brac'd 
And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 
The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 
And  binds  the  shoulder  flat.     We  prove  its  use 
Sov'reign  and  most  effectual  to  secure  590 

A  form,  not  nov/  gymnastick  as  of  yore, 
From  rickets,  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 
But  thus  admonish'd,  we  can  walk  erect — 
One  proof  at  least  of  manliood !  while  the  friend 
Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge.  595 

Our  habits,  costlier  than  Lucullus  wore, 
And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his. 
Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 
But  change  with  ev'ry  moon.     The  sycophant, 
Who  waits  to  diess  us,  arbitrates  their  date  ;  600 

Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye  ; 
Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete,  ' 

This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceiv'd; 
And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 
With  our  expenditure  defrays  his  own.  605 

Variety's  the  very  spice  of  life. 
That  gives  it  all  its  flavour.     We  have  run 
Through  ev'ry  change,  that  Fancy  at  the  loom 
Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply  ; 
And  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard  610 

A  real  elegance,  a  little  us'd, 
For  monstrous  novelty  and  strange  disguise. 


4G  THE  TASK. 

We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 

And  comforts  cease.     Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 

And  keeps  our  larder  lean  ;  puts  out  our  fires;         615 

And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  wo, 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live, 

Would  fail  t'  exhibit  at  the  publick  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there,  620 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost  ? 

A  man  o'  th'  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough, 

With  reasonable  forecast  and  despatch, 

T'  ensure  a  side-box  station  at  half  price. 

You  think,  perhaps,  so  delicate  his  dress,  625 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate      Alas  ! 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and,  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet ! 

The  rout  is  Folly's  circle,  which  she  draws 

With  magick  wand.     So  potent  is  the  spell,  630 

That  none,  decoy'd  into  that  fatal  ring. 

Unless  by  Heav'n's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise  ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend ; 

Solicit  pleasure  hopeless  of  success  ;  635 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports,  which  only  childhood  could  excuse. 

There,  they  are  happiest  who  dissemble  best 

Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite  640 

Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a  smile. 

Though  at  their  own  destruction.     She  that  asks 

Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all, 

And  hates  their  coming.    They  (what  can  they  less .') 

Make  just  reprisals  ;  and  with  cringe  and  shrug,     645 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  from  her  grace, 

Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies, 

And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pass, 

To  her,  v;ho,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift  650 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  47 

May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 

Is  hackney  "d  home  unlackey'd  ;  who,  in  haste 

Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door, 

And,  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borrowing  hght, 

Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left.  G55 

Wives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  their  wives. 

On  Fortune's  velvet  altar  off  ring  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance — Fortune,  most  severe 

Of  goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  Heav'n. —  660 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house,  the  World  ; 

And  'tis  a  fearful  spectacle  to  see 

So  many  maniacks  dancing  in  their  chains. 

They  gaze  upon  the  links,  that  hold  them  fast, 

With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot,  065 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again  I 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues. 
That  waste  our  vitals  ;  peculation,  sale 
Of  honour,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law,  670 

By  tricks  and  lies  as  num'rous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel  : 
Then  cast  them,  closely  bundled,  ev'ry  brat 
At  the  right  door.     Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrain'd,  with  all  that's  base  675 

In  character,  has  litter'd  all  the  land. 
And  bred,  within  the  mem'ry  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood,  such  as  Baals  was  of  old, 
A  people,  such  as  never  was  till  now. 
It  is  a  hungry  vice  : — it  eats  up  all  680 

That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength, 
Convenience,  security,  and  use  : 
Makes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapp'd 
And  gibbeted,  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey  :  unties  the  knot  685 

Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a  scourge. 
Profiision  dclnnrinfr  a  state  wltli  lusts 


48  THE  TASK. 

Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worst  effects, 

Prepares  it  for  its  ruin  :  hardens,  blinds,  690 

And  warps,  the  consciences  of  publick  men. 

Till  they  can  laugh  at  Virtue  ;  mock  the  fools 

That  trust  them  ;  and  in  th'  end  disclose  a  face, 

That  would  have  sliock'd  Credulity  herself. 

Unmask'd,  vouchsafing  this  their  sole  excuse —        695 

Since  all  alike  are  selfish,  why  not  they  ? 

This  does  Profusion,  and  th'  accursed  cause 

Of  such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a  cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls  in  ancient  days, 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  aiid  truth,  700 

Were  precious  and  inculcated  with  care, 
There  dwelt  a  sage  calFd  Discipline,     His  head, 
Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver'd  o'er, 
Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youtli, 
But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpaird.  705 

His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 
Play'd  on  his  lips  ;  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity,  and  love. 
The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 
Was  to  encourage  goodness.     He  would  stroke       710 
The  head  of  modest  and  ingenious  worth, 
That  blush'd  at  his  own  praise  :  and  press  the  youtlj 
Close  to  his  side  that  pleasd  him.     Learning  grew 
Beneath  iiis  care,  a  thriving  vig'rous  plant ; 
The  mind  was  well  informed,  the  passions  held        715 
Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 
If  e'er  it  chanc'd,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 
That  one  among  so  many  overleap 'd 
The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 
Grew  stern,  and  darted  a  severe  rebultc  ;  720 

His  frown  was  full  of  terrour,  and  his  voice 
Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe, 
As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 
Lost  favour  back  again,  and  clos'd  the  breach. 
But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long,  725 

Declin'd  at  lerff^h  into  the  vale  of  vcars  • 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  49 

A  palsy  struck  his  arm  ;  his  sparkhng  eye 
Was  quenclied  in  rheums  of  age  ;  his  voice,  unstrung, 
Grew  tremulous,  and  movd  derision  more 
Than  rev'reucc,  in  perverse  rebeUious  youth.  730 

So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 
Their  good  old  friend  ;  and  Discipline  at  length, 
0'erlook"d  and  unemploy"d,  fell  sick  and  died. 
Then  Study  languished,  Emulation  slept, 
And  Virtue  fled.     The  schools  became  a  scene        735 
Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts, 
His  cap  well  lind  with  logick  not  his  own, 
With  parrot  tongue  perform 'd  the  scholar's  part, 
Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 
Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny  740 

Became  stone  blind  ;  precedence  went  in  trucit, 
And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so. 
A  dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued  ; 
The  curbs  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth 
Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken  ;  bars  and  bolts  745 
Grew  rusty  by  disuse  ;  and  massy  gates 
Forgot  their  office,  op'ning  with  a  touch  ; 
Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade, 
The  tassel'd  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 
A  mock'ry  of  the  world  !  What  need  of  these  750 

For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothelers  impure. 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen,  oft'ner  seen 
With  belted  waist  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ?  What  was  learn'd, 
If  aught  was  learn'd  in  childhood,  is  forgot :  755 

And  such  expense,  as  pinches  parents  blue, 
And  mortifies  the  lib'ral  hand  of  love, 
Is  squander'd  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  pleasures  ;  buys  the  boy  a  name 
That  sits  a  stigma  on  his  father's  house,  760 

And  cleaves  through  life  inseparably  close 
To  him  that  wears  it.     What  can  after  games 
Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  vrorld, 
Vor.  If. 


oO  THE  TASK. 

The  lewd  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon, 

Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired,  765 

Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  professed  .'' 

They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 

His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task 

That  bids  defiance  to  th'  united  powers 

Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews.  770 

Now  blame  we  most  the  nurselings  or  the  nurse  .'' 

The  children  crookd,  and  twisted,  and  deform'd, 

Through  want  of  care ;  or  her,  whose  winking  eye 

And  slumb'ring  oscitancy  mars  the  brood  ? 

The  nurse,  no  doubt.     Ptegardiess  of  her  charge,    775 

She  needs  herself  correction  ;  needs  to  learn 

That  it  is  dang'rous  sporting  with  the  world, 

With  things  so  sacred  as  a  nation's  trust, 

The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such.     I  had  a  brother  once —  780 

Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worth, 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too  ! 
Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears, 
When  gay  good-natured  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  grac'd  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet  785 

Was  sacred  ;  and  was  honour'd,  lov'd,  and  wept 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  temper'd  happily,  and  mix'd 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense,  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst  790 

With  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom's  sake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them  ;  what  they  see 
Of  vice  ir  others  but  enhancing  more  795 

The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteem. 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool  to  shine  abroad, 
And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves, 

Bcne't  Coll.  Cambridge. 


THE  TIME-PIECE.  51 

Small  thanks  to  those  whose  necrligence  or  sloth     800 
Expos'd  their  inexperience  to  tlie  snare, 
And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See  then  the  quiver  broken  and  decay'd, 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  !  Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unlit  for  use,  805 

What  wonder,  if  dischargd  into  the  world, 
They  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flight, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine ! 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war 
With  such  artillry  arm'd.     Vice  parries  wide  810 

Th'  undreaded  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  track'd  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birthplace  and  his  dam  .-'  The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  ev'ry  plague  that  can  infest  815 

Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  th'  edifice  that  policy  has  rais'd, 
Swarms  in  all  quarters :  meets  the  eye,  the  ear, 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  ev'ry  turn. 
Profusion  breeds  them  ;  and  the  cause  itself  820 

Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found  : 
Found,  too,  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  rob'd  pedagogue  !  Else  let  th'  arraign'd 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch 'd  his  arm,  825 

And  wav'd  his  rod  divine,  a  race  obscene, 
Spav/n'd  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forfTi, 
Polluting  Egypt  :  gardens,  fields,  and  plains. 
Were  cover'd  with  the  pest ;  the  streets  were  fill'd ; 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk'd  in  ev'ry  nook  ;  830 

Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  'scap'd  ; 
And  the  land  stank — so  num'rous  was  the  fry. 


THE  TASK. 


-  '  -^ 

THE  GARDEN. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

Self-recollection,  and  reproof— Address  to  domestick  Lappiness — 
Some  account  of  myself — The  vanity  of  many  of  their  pursuits, 
who  are  reputed  wise — Justification  of  my  censures — Divine  il- 
lumination necessary  to  the  most  expert  philosopher. — The  ques- 
tion, What  is  truth  '  answered  by  other  questions — Domestick 
happiness  addressed  again — Few  lovers  of  the  country — My  tame 
hare — Occupations  of  a  retired  gentleman  in  his  garden — Pruning 
— Framing-— Greenhouse — Sowing  of  flower  seeds — Tlie  country 
preferable  to  the  town  even  in  the  winter — Reasons  why  it  is 
deserted  at  that  season — Ruinous  effects  of  gaming  and  of  ex- 
pensive improvement — Book  concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  the 
metropolis. 


AS  one,  who  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 

Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 

His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home; 

Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foil'd 

And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough  5 

Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape  ; 

If  chance  at  length  he  find  a  greensward  smooth 

And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 

He  cherups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed, 

And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease !      10 

So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  call'd 

T'  adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 


THE  GARDEN.  53 

To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreamSj 

Have  rambled  wide.     In  country,  city,  scat 

Of  academick  fame,  (howe'er  deserv'd.)  15 

Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengag'd  at  last : 

But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a  cleanlier  road 

I  mean  to  tread.     I  feel  myself  at  large, 

Courageous,  and  refresh 'd  lor  future  toil, 

If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new.  20 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty  ineffectual  sound, 
What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known, 
Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much, 
Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope  25 

Crack  the  satirick  thong  'i  'Twere  wiser  far 
For  m.e,  enamour'd  of  sequestcr'd  scenes, 
And  charm'd  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose 
Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vine, 
My  languid  limbs  ;  when  summer  sears  the  plains ;  30 
Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 
And  shelter'd  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 
Feeds  a  blue  flame,  and  makes  a  cheerful  hearth  ; 
There,  undisturbd  by  Folly,  and  apprizd 
How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her,  35 

To  muse  in  silence,  or  at  least  confine 
Remarks,  that  gall  so  many,  to  the  few 
My  partners  in  retreat.     Disgust  conceal'd 
Is  ofttimes  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 
Ts  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach.  40 

Domestick  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise,  that  has  surviv'd  the  fall ! 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpfiird  .and  pure, 
Or  tasting,  long  enjoy  thee  !  too  infirm, 
Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets  45 

Unmix"d  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 
Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup  ; 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue — in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heav'n-born,  and  destin'd  to  the  skies  acrain.  50 


54  THE  TASK. 

Thou  art  n-ot  known  where  Pleasure  is  ador  d, 

That  reeling  goddess,  with  the  zoneless  waist 

And  wand'ring  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 

Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support ; 

For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change,       55 

And  finding  in  the  calm  of  truth-tried  love, 

Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 

Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 

Of  honour,  dignity,  and  fair  renown  ! 

Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside  60 

In  all  our  crowded  streets  ;  and  senates  seem 

Conven'd  for  purposes  of  empire  less 

Than  to  release  the  adultress  from  her  bond. 

Th'  adulfress  !  what  a  tlieme  for  angry  verse  ! 

What  provocation  to  th'  indignant  heart,  C5 

That  feels  for  injur'd  love  !  but  I  disdain 

The  nauseous  task  to  paint  her  as  she  is. 

Cruel,  abandon'd,  glorying  in  her  shame  ? 

No  : — let  her  pass,  and,  charioted  along 

In  guilty  splendour,  shake  the  publick  ways  ;  70 

The  frequency  of  crimes  has  washd  them  white, 

And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch, 

Whom  matrons  now  of  character  unsmirch'd 

And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  asham'd  to  own. 

Virtue  and  vice  had  boundaries  in  old  time,  75 

Not  to  be  pass'd  :  and  she  that  had  renounced 

Her  sex's  honour,  was  renounc'd  herself 

By  all  that  priz'd  it ;  not  for  prud'ry"s  sake 

But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 

'Twas  hard  perhaps  on  here  and  there  a  waif,  80 

Desirous  to  return  and  not  received  : 

But  was  a  wholesome  rigour  in  the  main. 

And  taught  th'  unblemish'd  to  preserve  with  care 

That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 

Men  too  were  nice  in  honour  in  those  days,  85 

And  judg'd  offenders  well.     Tlian  he  that  sharp'd, 

And  pocketed  a  prize  by  fraud  obtain'd. 

Was  mark'd  and  shunn'd  as  odinu;;.     He  that  sold 


THE  GARDEN.  55 

His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  requird 

His  ev'ry  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch,  90 

Paid  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spar'd 

The  price  of  his  default.     But  now — yes,  now 

We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair 

So  lib'ral  in  construction,  and  so  rich 

In  christian  charity,  (good  natur'd  age  !)  95 

That  they  are  safe  ;  sinners  of  either  sex 

Transgress  what  laws  they  may.     Well  dress'd,  well 

bred. 
Well  equipagd,  is  ticket  good  enough, 
To  pass  as  readily  through  ev'ry  door. 
Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  w^e  may,  100 

(And  no  man  s  hatred  ever  wrongd  her  yet, 
May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 
The  vi?^orth  of  what  she  mimicks,  with  such  care, 
-And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applause  ; 
But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here,  105 

Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since.     With  many  an  arrow  deep  infix 'd 
My  panting  side  was  charg'd,  when  I  withdrew       110 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.     In  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts,  115 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene  ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  mors.  120 

Here  much  1  ruminate,  as  much  I  may. 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come  ■ 
I  pee  that  all  are  wandrers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions  ;  they  are  lost  IS9 


56  THE  TASK. 

In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  wood 

And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues  ; 

And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed. 

And  still  are  disappointed.     Rings  the  world 

With  the  vain  si  ir.     I  sum  up  hail  mankind  130 

And  add  two  thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 

And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 

Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  million  flit  as  gay, 

As  if  created  only  like  the  fiy. 

That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  th'  eye  of  noon,  135 

To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 

The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 

And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 

Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 

Of  heroes  little  known  ;  and  call  the  rant  140 

A  history  :  describe  the  man,  of  whom 

His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note. 

And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views, 

As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb. 

They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein,  145- 

In  which  obscurity  has  wrapp'd  them  up. 

The  threads  of  politick  and  shrewd  design. 

That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and  charge 

His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had. 

Or,  having,  kept  conceaFd.     Some  drill  and  bore    150 

The  solid  earth,  and  from  the  strata  there 

Extract  a  register,  by  which  we  learn, 

That  he  who  made  it  and  reveal'd  its  date 

To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 

Some,  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still,  155 

Contrive  creation  ;  travel  nature  up 

To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height, 

And  teil  us  whence  the  stors;  why  some  are  fix'd. 

And  planetary  some  ;  what  gave  them  first 

Rotation,  from  what  fountain  flow'd  their  light.       160 

Great  contest  follov.'s,  and  much  learned  dust 

Involves  the  combatants  ;  each  claiming  truth. 

And  truth  disclaiming  both.    And  thus  they  spend 


THE  GARDEN.  57 

The  little  wick  of  life's  poor  shallow  lamp 
In  playing  tricks  with  nature,  giving  laws  165 

To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 
Is't  not  a  pity  now,  that  tickling  rheums 
Should  ever  tease  the  lungs,  and  blear  the  sight 
Of  oracles  like  these  ?  Great  pity,  too, 
That  having  wielded  th'  elements,  and  built  170 

A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way, 
They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot ! 
Ah  !  what  is  life  thus  spent  ?  and  what  are  they 
But  frantick,  who  thus  spend  it .''  all  for  smoke — 
Eternity  for  bubbles,  proves  at  last  175 

A  senseless  bargain.     When  1  see  such  games 
Playd  by  the  creatures  of  a  pow'r  who  swears 
That  he  will  judge  the  Earth,  and  call  the  fool 
To  a  sharp  reck'ning,  that  has  livd  in  vain ; 
And  when  I  weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well,  180 

-And  prove  it  in  th'  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  so  false — I  feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 
If  this  be  learning,  most  of  ali  deceiv  d. 
Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps,    185 
"While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused. 
Defend  me,  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 
From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up !  190 

'Twere  well,  says  one.  sage,  erudite,  profound 
Terribly  arch'd  and  aquiline  his  nose, 
And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows, 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  World  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases  :  what's  the  World  to  you  .''    193 
Much.     I  was  uorn  of  woman,  and  drew  milk 
As  sweet  as  charity  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate — I  laugh  and  weep, 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  lives  200 

IBe  strangers  to  each  other  ?  Pierce  my  vein, 


58  THE  TASK. 

Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meand'ring  there, 
And  catechise  it  well :  apply  thy  glass, 
Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  own  :  and,  if  it  be,  205 

What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou*€uppo9e 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art. 
To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind  ? 
True  ;  I  am  no  proficient,  I  confess,  2J0 

In  arts  like  yours.     I  cannot  call  the  swifl 
And  perilous  lightnings  from  the  angry  clouds, 
And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath  ; 
I  cannot  analyze  the  air,  nor  catch 
The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point,  215 

That  seems  half  quench'd  in  the  immense  abyss  : 
Such  powers  I  boast  not — neither  can  I  rest 
A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage. 
Or  heedless  folly,  by  which  thousands  die, 
Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine.  220 

God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  Heav'ns 
By  strides  of  human  wisdom.    In  his  works, 
Though  wondrous,  he  commands  us  in  his  word 
To  seek  him  rather  where  his  mercy  shines. 
The  mind,  indeed,  enUghten'd  from  above,  225 

Views  him  in  all ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect ;  acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style. 
But  never  yet  did  philosophick  tube, 
That  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  eye  230 

Of  observation,  and  discovers,  else 
Not  visible,  his  family  of  worlds. 
Discover  him  that  rules  them  ;  such  a  veil 
Hangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 
And  dark  in  things  divine.     Full  often  too,  235 

Our  wayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
Of  nature,  overlooks  her  author  more  ; 
From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake. 


THE  GARDEN.  59 

But  if  his  word  once  teach  us — shoot  a  ray  240 

Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscern'd  but  by  that  holy  light ; 
Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptiz'd 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 
Has  eyes  indeed  ;  and  viewing  all  she  sees  245 

As  meant  to  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Xicarning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches  :  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  pray'r    250 
Has  flow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  tlw  wisdom,  Newton,  childlike  sage  ! 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  his  word  sagacious.     Such,  too,  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelick  wings,  255 

And  fed  on  manna  1  And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale  !  for  deep  discernment  prais'd, 
And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  fam'd 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undeiird.  260 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fades 
Like  the  fair  flow'r  dishevell'd  in  the  wind ; 
Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dream } 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb, 
And  we  that  worship  him,  ignoble  graves.  265 

Nothing  is  proof  against  the  gen'ral  curse 
Of  vanity  that  seizes  all  below. 
The  only  amaranthine  flowr  on  earth 
Is  virtue  ;  th'  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 
But  what  is  truth  ?  'Twas  Pilate's  question  put       270 
To  Truth  itself,  that  deign 'd  him  no  reply. 
And  wherefore  ?  will  not  God  impart  his  light 
To  them  that  ask  it  .' — Freely — 'tis  his  joy, 
Plis  glory,  and  his  nature,  to  impart. 
But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere,  275 

Or  negligent  inquirer,  not  a  spark. 
"What's  that  wliic))  brings  contempt  upon  a  book, 


00  THE  TASK. 

And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  neat, 

The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact  : 

That  makes  a  minister  in  holy  tnings  280 

The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more. 

His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  ? — 

That,  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account, 

Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  .'' 

What  pearl  is  it,  that  rich  men  cannot  buy,  285 

That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up  ; 

But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despis'd  of  all, 

Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought ; 

Tell  me — and  I  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man,  290 

Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace  ! 
Domestick  life  in  rural  leisure  pass'd  ! 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets ; 
Though  many  boast  thy  favours,  and  affect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own.  295 

But  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bliss, 
E'en  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 
Though  plac'd  in  Paradise,  (for  earth  has  still, 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy  :  300 

Scenes  form'd  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  v/isdom  ;  that  suggest 
By  ev'ry  pleasing  image  they  present, 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind  ;  305 

Scenes  such  as  these  'tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fill  with  riot,  and  defile  with  blood. 
Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 
We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale,  310 

Fearless  and  wrapt  away  from  all  his  cares ; 
Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 
Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye  ; 
Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song, 
Be  quell'd  in  all  our  summer-months'  retreats ;        315 


THE  GARDEN.  61 

How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swains, 

Who  dream  they  have  a  taste  for  fields  and  groves, 

Would  find  them  hideous  nurs"ries  of  the  spleen, 

And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town  ! 

They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek,     320 

For  their  own  sake,  its  silence  and  its  shade. 

Delights  which  who  would  leave  that  has  a  heart 

Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 

Cultur'd  and  capable  of  sober  thought 

For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack  325 

And  clamours  of  the  field  ? — Detested  sport, 

That  owes  its  pleasures  to  another's  pain  ; 

That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 

Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 

With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire,  330 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs  ? 

Vain  tears,  alas,  and  sighs  that  never  find 

A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls  ! 

Well — one  at  least  is  safe.     One  shelter'd  hare 

Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell  335 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  care 

Has  made  at  last  familiar  :  she  has  lost 

Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread,  340 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  mayst  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 

That  feeds  thee ;  thou  mayst  frolick  on  the  floor 

At  ev'ning,  and  at  night  retire  secure 

To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'd  •,  345 

For  I  have  gained  thy  confidence,  have  pledg'd 

All  that  is  human  in  me,  to  protect 

Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 

If  I  survive  thee,  I  will  dig  thy  grave  ; 

And,  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say,  350 

I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend.* 

''  See  the  note  ai  ilie  end. 
Vol,.  TI.  «j 


62  THE  TASK. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  ;  and  who  justly  in  return 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too  ! 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen,         355 
Delightful  industrj-  enjoy'd  at  home, 
And  nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Dress'd  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad— 
Can  he  want  occupation  who  has  the  so  ? 
Will  he  be  idle  who  has  much  t'  enjoy  ?  360 

Me  therefore  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  with  use, 
"When  He  shall  call  his  debtors  to  account,  365 

From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
E'en  here  :  while  sedulous  I  seek  t'  improve, 
At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemploy'd, 
The  mind  he  gave  me  ;  driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work  370 

By  causes  not  to  be  divulg'd  in  vain. 
To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 
He  that  attends  to  his  interiour  self, 
That  has  a  heart,  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 
That  hungers  and  supplies  it ;  and  who  seeks         375 
A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life. 
Has  business ;  feels  himself  engag'd  t'  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent  task. 
A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem 
To  him  that  leads  it  wise,  and  to  be  prais'd;  380 

But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize.  3^ 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester'd  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys 


THE  GARDEN.  63 

With  her  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart,    390 

Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph, 

Which  neatly  she  prepares  :  then  to  his  book 

Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perus'd 

In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted,  oft 

As  aught  occurs  that  she  may  smile  to  hear,  395 

Or  turn  to  nourishment,  digested  well. 

Or  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares, 

All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 

The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 

Of  lubbard  Labour  needs  his  watchful  eye,  400 

Oft  loit'ring  lazily,  if  not  o'erseen, 

Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 

Nor  does  he  govern  only,  or  direct, 

But  much  performs  himself     No  works  indeed, 

That  ask  robust,  tough  sinews  bred  to  toil,  405 

Servile  employ  ;  but  such  as  may  amuse, 

Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 

Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees. 

That  meet,  no  barren  interval  between, 

With  pleasure  more  than  e'en  their  fruits  afford  ;    410 

Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel. 

These  therefore  are  his  own  pecuhar  charge  ; 

No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots, 

None  but  his  steel  approach  them.     What  is  weak, 

Distemper'd;  or  has  lost  prolifick  pow'rs,  415 

Impaired  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 

Dooms  to  the  knife  :  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft 

And  succulent,  that  feeds  its  giant  growth, 

But  barren,  at  th'  expense  of  neighb'ring  twigs 

Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick  420 

With  hopeful  gems.     The  rest,  no  portion  left 

That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 

Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 

At  measur'd  distances,  that  air  and  sun, 

Admitted  freely  may  afford  their  aid,  425 

And  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 

Hence  summer  has  her  riche  '.  *"t.umn  hence, 


C4  THE  TASK. 

And  hence  e'en  Winter  fills  his  wilherd  hand 

With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own." 

Fair  recompense  of  labour  well  bestow'd,  430 

And  wise  precaution  ;  which  a  clime  so  rude 

Makes  needful  still,  whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 

Of  churlish  Winter,  in  her  froward  moods 

Discov'ring  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 

For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild  435 

Maternal  nature  had  revers'd  its  course, 

She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles ; 

But  once  deliver'd,  kills  them  with  a  frown. 

He  therefore,  timely  warn'd,  himself  supplies 

Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm      440 

The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 

His  garlands  from  the  boughs.     Again,  as  oft 

As  the  sun  peeps,  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 

The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  ev'ry  beam, 

And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day.        445 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd, 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted;  else  base  and  disesteem'd — 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely — is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matur'd,  450 

And  at  this  moment  unessay'd  in  song. 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long  since, 
Their  eulogy  ;  those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard, 
And  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains ; 
And  in  thy  numbers,  Philips,  shines  for  aye  455 

The  solitary  shilling.     Pardon,  then, 
Ye  sage  dispensers  ot  poetick  fame, 
Th'  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  pow'rs, 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime. 
Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste  460 

Of  critick  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 
A  cucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 

The  stable  yields  a  stercoraceous  heap, 

*  Miraturque  novos  fruclus  et  non  sua  poma.     Virg, 


THE  GARDEN.  65 

Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  salts, 
And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast :  4G5 

For  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 
Deciduous,  wlien  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Expos'd  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily,  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed,  470 

He  seeks  a  favour'd  spot  ;  that  where  he  builds 
Th'  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.     First  he  bids  spread  475 

Dry  fern  or  litter 'd  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
Tlr  ascending  damps;  then  leisurely  impose, 
And  lightly  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest  forms  secure  480 

The  shapely  side,  that  as  it  rises  takes, 
By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breath, 
Shelfring  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves  ; 
Th'  uplifted  frame,  compact  at  ev'ry  joint, 
And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass,  485 

He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 
Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 
From  the  dash'd  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls. 
He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends. 
Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  Earth  490 

Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth, 
Slow  gath'ring  in  the  midst,  through  the  square  mass 
Diffused,  attain  the  surface  ;  when,  behold  ! 
A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  stream. 
Like  a  gross  foff  Boeotian;  rising  fast,  495 

And  fast  condens'd  upon  t!iv^  dewy  sash, 
Asks  egress  '  which  obtain  d,  the  overcharg'd 
And  drench"d  conservatory  breathes  abroad. 
In  volumes  wheeling  slow  the  vapour  dank ; 
And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost  500 

Its  foul  inhabitant.     But  to  assuage 
6=* 


GO  THE  TASK. 

Th'  impatient  fervour,  wliich  it  first  conceives 

Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threat'ning  death 

To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 

Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft  505 

The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  foul. 

Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  to  catch 

Th'  auspicious  moment,  when  the  temper'd  heat, 

Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 

Soft  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed.  510 

The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump,  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 

Diminutive,  well  fill'd  with  well-prepar'd 

And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasur'd  long, 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds.   515 

These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth  that  hides 

The  smoking  manure,  and  o'erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and,  as  time  subdues 

The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 

In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immers'd.  520 

Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick 

And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes  ;  at  first 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid  ;  but  assuming  soon, 

If  fann'd  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain'd  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  green.  525 

Two  leaves  produc'd,  two  rough  indented  loaves, 

Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 

A  pimple  that  portends  a  future  sprout. 

And  interdicts  its  growth.     Thence  straight  succeed 

The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish  ;  530 

Prolifick  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 

And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 

Indulg'd  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 

Large  foliage,  overshadowing  golden  flow'rs,  535 

Blown  on  the  summit  of  the  apparent  fruit. 

These  have  their  sexes  ;  and  when  summer  shines, 

The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 

From  flow'r  to  flow'r,  and  e'en  the  breathing  air 


THE  GARDEN  6? 

Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use.  o"40. 

Not  so  when  winter  scowls.  Assistant  Art 
Then  acts  in  Nature's  office,  brings  to  pass 
The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  Luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  World's  more  num'rous  half  54o 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  yoU;) 
Grudge  not  the  cost.     Ye  little  know  the  cares 
The  vigilance,  the  labour,  and  the  skill. 
That  day  and  night  are  exercis'd,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense,  550 

That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 
Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  v/ait  to  thwart 
The  process.     Heat,  and  cold,  and  wind,  and  steam, 
Moisture  and   drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarming 
flies,  555 

Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 
And  which  no  care  can  obviate.     It  were  long. 
Too  long,  to  tell  th'  expedients  and  the  shifts, 
Which  he  that  fights  a  season  so  severe  560 

Devises  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust ; 
And  oft  at  last  in  vain.     The  learn'd  and  wise 
Sarcastick  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  like  its  theme  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labour,  worthless  when  produc'd.        565 

Who  loves  a  garden  loves  a  green-house  too 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime. 
There  blooms  exotick  beauty,  warm  and  snug, 
While  the  winds  whistle  and  the  snows  descend, 
The  spiry  myrtle  with  unwith'ring  leaf  570 

Shines  there,  and  flourishes.     The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 
The  ruddier  orange,  and  the  paler  lime 
Peep  through  their  pohsh'd  foliage  at  the  storm, 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear.        575 
The  amomum  there  with  intermingling  flow'rs 


<'^  THE  TASK. 

And  cherries  Jiangs  lier  twigs.     Geranium  boasts 

Her  crimson  honours  ;  and  the  spanieled  faeau, 

Ficoides  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 

All  plants  of  ev'ry  leaf,  that  can  endure  5S0 

The  Avinter's  frown,  if  screen'd  from  his  shrewd  bite, 

Live  there,  and  prosper.     Those  Ausonia  claim?, 

Levantine  regions  these  ;  th'  Azores  send 

Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 

CafFraria  :  foreigners  from  many  lands,  5S5 

They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  conven'd 

By  magick  summons  of  th'  Orphean  lyre. 

Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 

But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 

The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flow'r,  590 

Must  lend  its  aid  t'  illustrate  all  their  charms, 

And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 

Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 

The  dwarlish,  in  the  rear  retir'd,  but  still 

Subhme  above  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand.  595 

So  once  were  ranged  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 

A  noble  show  !  while  R-oscius  trod  the  stage  ; 

And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renown'd  as  he, 

The  sons  of  Albion  ;  fearing  each  to  lose 

i5ome  note  of  Nature's  musick  from  his  lips,  600 

And  covetous  of  Shakspoare's  beauty,  seen 

In  ev'ry  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 

Nor  taste  alone  and  well-contriv'd  display 

Suffice  to  give  the  marshall'd  ranks  the  grace 

Of  their  complete  effect.     Much  yet  remains  605 

Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 

And  more  laborious  ;  cares  on  which  depend 

Their  vigour,  injur'd  soon,  not  soon  restor'd. 

The  soil  must  be  renew'd,  which  often  wash'd 

Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts,  CIO 

And  disappoints  the  roots ;  the  slender  roots 

Close  interwoven,  Avhere  they  meet  the  vase, 

Must  smooth  be  shorn  away  ;  the  sapless  branch, 

Must  fly  before  the  knife ;  the  wither'd  leaf 


THE  GARDEN.  CS 

Must  be  detach'd,  and  where  it  strews  the  floor      Glo 
Swept  with  a  woman's  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion  and  disseminating  death. 
Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  like  these  ?) 
Well  they  repay  the  toil.     The  sight  is  pleased,     020 
The  scent  regal'd,  each  odorif'rous  leaf, 
Each  op'ning  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 
Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 

So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind, 
All  healthful,  are  th'  employs  of  rural  life.  Q2o 

Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round  ;  still  ending,  and  beginning  still. 
Nor  are  these  all.     To  deck  the  shapely  kjioll 
That  softly  swell'd  and  gayly  dress'd  appears 
A  flow'ry  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn  630 

Emerging,  must  be  deera'd  a  labour  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-match'd 
And  sorted  hues,  (each  giving  each  relief, 
And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more,)  G35 

Is  needful.     Strength  may  wield  the  pond'rous  spade. 
May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home  : 
But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows. 
And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  result 
Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a  polish'd  mind.  64.0. 

Without  it  all  is  Gothick  as  the  scene 
To  which  th'  insipid  citizen  resorts 
Near  yonder  heath  ;  where  industry  mispent, 
But  proud  of  his  uncouth,  ill-chosen  task, 
Has  made  a  Heav'n  on  Earth ;  with  suns  and  moons 
Of  close-ramm'd  stones   has  charg'd  th'  encumber'd 
soil,  646 

And  fairly  laid  the  zodiack  in  tlic  dust. 
He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flow'rs  dispos'd 
Sightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 
The  beds  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds,  650 

Forecasts  the  future  whole  ;  that,  when  the  scene 


70  THE  TASK. 

Shall  break  into  its  pteconceiv'd  display, 

Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 

Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design, 

Nor  even  then  dismissing  as  perform'd,  655 

His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 

Few  self-supported  flow"rs  endure  the  wind 

Uninjur'd,  but  expect  the  upholding  aid 

Of  the  smooth  shaven  prop,  and,  neatly  tied, 

Are  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age,  660 

For  int'rest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 

Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  difFus'd 

And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair, 

Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen  : 

Some  more  aspiring  catch  the  neighbour  shrub       665 

With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 

Else  unadorn'd,  with  many  a  gay  festoon 

And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 

The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they  lend. 

All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds,  670 

Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 

Th'  impov'rishd  earth  ;  an  overbearing  race, 

Tbat,  like  the  multitude  made  faction  mad, 

Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

O  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world,  675 

Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys!   Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil  ;  proving  still  630 

A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erlcapd  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  uncontroll'd 
Abroad,  and  desolating  publick  life, 
When  fierce  Temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  Appetite,  and  arm'd  with  darts  685 

Temper'd  in  Hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast, 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us  ;  but  to  fly  is  safe. 
Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 


THE  GARDEN.  Tl 

What  coa.d  1  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here  ?  690 

Health,  leisure,  means  t'  hnprove  it,  friendship,  peace, 

No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wandring  muse, 

And  constant  occupation  without  care. 

Thus  blest,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss; 

Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds,  695 

And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 

Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 

Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 

Allur'd  by  my  report :  but  sure  no  less 

That  self-condemnd  they  must  neglect  the  prize,  7U0 

And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 

What  we  admire  we  praise  ;  and  when  we  praise 

Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  its  worth 

Acknowledg'd,  others  may  admire  it  too. 

J  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk  705 

Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 

The  cause  of  piety  and  sacred  truth, 

And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordain'd 

Should  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  most; 

Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive  710 

Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy'd. 

Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  lib'ral  of  her  smiles, 

And  chaste,  though  unconfin'd,  whom  I  extol. 

Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  call'd, 

Vain-glorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth,         715 

To  grace  the  full  pavilion.     His  design 

Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 

Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 

My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone  ;  my  sweets. 

And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too,  720 

Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 

And  lineaments  divine  I  trace  a  hand 

Tiiat  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  rCi^ew'd, 

Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 

Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want       725 

Admirers,  and  be  destind  to  divide 

With  moaner  obiects  e'en  th<2  few  t^Iio  finds  '. 


72  THE  TASK. 

Stripp'd  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flow'rs, 

She  loses  all  her  influence.     Cities  then 

Attract  us,  and  neglected  Nature  pines  730 

Abandon'd  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfum'd 

By  roses  ;  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt ; 

And  groves,  if  unharraonious,  yet  secure 

From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charms  ;      735 

To  be  preferred  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse, 

That  metropolitan  volcanoes  make, 

Whose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day  long ; 

And  to  the  stir  of  Commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thund'ring  loud,  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels  ? 

They  would  be,  v^ere  not  madness  in  the  head,        741 

And  folly  in  the  heart ;  were  England  now, 

AVhat  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind, 

And  undebauch'd.     But  we  have  bid  farewell 

To  all  the  virtues  of  those  better  days,  745 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.     Mansions  once 

Knew  their  own  masters  ;  and  laborious  hinds, 

Who  had  surviv'd  the  father,  serv'd  the  son. 

Now,  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 

Is  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arriv'd,  750 

And  soon  to  be  supplanted.     He  that  saw 

His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf. 

Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 

To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

Estates  are  landscapes,  gaz'd  upon  a  while,  755 

Then  advertis'd,  and  auctioneer 'd  away. 

The  country  starves,  and  they  that  feed  th'  o'ercharg'd 

And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues. 

By  a  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 

The  wings  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight,  760 

Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows,  and  the  alert 

And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 

That  never  tire,  soon  fans  them  all  away. 

Improvement,  too,  the  idol  of  the  age, 

Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.     Lo.  he  comes  !  7C5r 


THE  GARDEN.  73 

Til'  omnipotent  magician,  Brown,  appears  I 
Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  th'  abode 
Of  our  forefathers — a  grave  whisker'd  race. 
But  tasteless.     Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead, 
But  in  a  distant  spot ;  where  more  expos'd  77Q 

It  may  enjoy  th'  advantage  of  the  north, 
And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transforra'd 
Those  naked  acres  to  a  sheltering  grove. 
He  speaks.     The  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn  j 
Woods  vanish,  hiils  subside,  and  valleys  rise  :  775 

And  streams,  as  if  created  for  his  use. 
Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand. 
Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow, 
Now  murm'ring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades — 
E'en  as  he  bids  !  Th'  enraptur'd  owner  smiles.         760 
'Tis  fmish'd,  and  yet,  fmish'd  as  it  seems, 
Btill  wants  a  grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 
A  mine  to  satisfy  th'  enormous  cost. 
Drain'd  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth, 
He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  th'  accomplish'd  plan  785 
That  ho  has  touch'd,  retouch'd,  many  a  long  day 
Labour  d,  and  many  a  night  pursu'd  in  dreams, 
Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  Heav'n 
He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy  I 
And  now  perhaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come,  790 

When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  t'  endear, 
Her  int'rests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 
A  moment's  operation  on  his  love, 
He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagrant  zeal 
To  serve  his  country.     Ministerial  grace  79^3 

Deals  him  out  money  from  the  publick  chest ; 
Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 
Supplies  his  need  with  a  usurious  loan, 
To  be  refunded  duly,  when  his  vote 
Well-manag'd  shall  have  earn'd  its  worthy  prico.    800 
O  innocent,  compar'd  with  arts  like  these. 
Crape,  and  cock'd  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 
Sent  through  the  trav'ller's  temples  !  He  that  firtds 
Vor.  ir.  7 


74  THE  TASK. 

One  drop  of  Heav'n's  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 

Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content,  805 

So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags 

At  his  last  gasp  ;  but  could  not  for  a  world 

Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependent  bread 

From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 

Sordid  and  sick'ning  at  his  own  success.  810 

Ambition,  avarice,  penury,  incurr'd 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  despatch 
As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear, 
The  world  of  wand'ring  knights  and  squires  to  town. 
London  ingulfs  them  all !  The  shark  is  there,  816 

And  the  shark's  prey  ;  the  spendthrift,  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him  •  there  the  sycophant,  and  ho 
Who,  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows, 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doom'd  to  a  cold  jaU  820 

And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
Were  character'd  on  ev'ry  statesman's  door, 
"  Batter' d  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here" 
These  are  the  charms  that  sully  and  eclipse  825 

The  charms  of  nature.     'Tis  the  cruel  gripe, 
That  lean,  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts. 
The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amus'd, 
That  at  the  sound  of  Winter's  hoary  wing  830 

Unpeople  all  our  countries  of  such  herds 
Of  flutt'ring,  loit'ring,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

O  thou  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth,  835 

Checker'd  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes  ;  in  whom  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire. 
And  all  tnat  1  abhor  ;  thou  freckled  fair. 
That  pleasest  and  yet  shock'st  me  !  I  can  laug'j,     S40 
And  I  can  v.-eep,  can  iione  and  can  desnond 


THE  GARDEN.  75 

Feel  wrath  and  pity,  when  I  think  on  thee  ! 

Ten  righteous  would  have  sav'd  a  city  once, 

And  thou  hast  many  righteous. — Well  for  thee— 

That  salt  preserves  thee  ;  more  corrupted  else,       645 

And  therefore  more  obnoxious,  at  this  hour, 

Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  pow'r  to  be, 

For  whom  God  heard  his  Abr'hara  plead  in  vain. 


THE  TASK< 


THE  WINTER  EVENING 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK. 

The  post  comes  in — The  newspaper  is  read — The  World  contera- 
plated  at  a  distance — Address  to  Winter — Tlic  rural  amusements 
of  a  winter  evening  compared  with  the  fashionable  ones — Ad- 
dress to  evening — A  brown  study — Fall  of  snow  in  the  evening — 
The  wagoner — A  poor  family  piece — The  rural  thief— Publick 
houses — The  multitude  of  them  censured — The  farmer's  daugh- 
tci- :  what  she  was, — what  she  is — The  simplicity  of  country 
manners  almost  lost — Causes  of  the  change — Desertion  of  the 
country  by  the  rich— Neglect  of  the  magistrates— The  militia  prin- 
cipally in  fault — The  new  recruit  and  his  transformation — Re- 
flection on  bodies  corporate — The  love  of  rural  objects  natutal  to 
all,  and  never  to  be  totally  extinguished. 


HARK  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 

That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 

Bestrides  the  wintry  flood  ;  in  which  the  moon 

Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright : — 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world,  5 

With  spatter'd  boots,  strapp'd  waist,  and  frozen  locks, 

News  from  all  nations  lumb'ring  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close-pack'd  load  behind, 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 

Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destin'd  inn  ;  10 

And  having  dropp'd  th'  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  77 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some  ; 
To  him  indiff 'rent  whether  grief  or  joy.  13 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or  chargd  with  am'rous  sighs  of  absent  swains,       20 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  O,  th'  important  budget  I  usher'd  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  rnusick,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ?  have  our  troops  awak'd  ?         2o 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg'd, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  th'  Atlantick  wave 
Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  wear  her  plum'd 
And  jewel'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  .'  The  grand  debate,  30 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logick,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  w-it, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all ; 
I  burn  to  set  th'  imprison'd  wranglers  free, 
And  give  them  voice  and  uttrance  once  again.  35. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each,  40 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in. 
Not  such  his  ev'ning,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeez'd 
And  bor'd  with  elbow  points  through  both  liis  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  :  45 

Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroick  rage, 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages  happy  work !  50 


7JS  THE  TASK. 

Which  not  e'en  criticks  criticise  ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read, 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break  ; 
What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life,  Ti 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 
That  tempts  Ambition.     On  the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 
He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  1  At  Jus  heels   CO 
Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends,^-'  . 
And  with  a  dext'rous  jerk  soon  twists  hhSf'down, 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  isi  his  turn. 
Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence,  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ;  65 

The  modest  speaker  is  asham'd  and  griev'd, 
T'  engross  a  moment's  notice  ;  and  yet  begs, 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  bis  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial,  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet  bashfulness  ;  it  claims  at  least  this  praise  :      70 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sensb 
That  it  foretells  us  always  comes  to  pas?. 
Cataracts  of  declamation  thnnder  here  ; 
There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 
In  which  all  comprehension  Vyfanders,  lost ;  75 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 
With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes-. 
The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 
But  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks. 
And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age,  80 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 
Heav'n,  earth,  and  oceaii,  plundered  of  their  sweets, 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  devrs, 
Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fav'rite  airs, 
iEthercal  journeys,  submarine  exploits,  85 

And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonders,  wond'ring  for  his  bread. 
'Tis  ple.aeant;  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 


THE  WLNTLR  EVENING.  79 

To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ;  00 

To  hear  the  roar  she  scuds  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjur"d  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  tiius  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanc'd  95 

To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war  100 

Has  lost  its  terrours  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
And  av'rice  tiiat  make  man  a  wolf  to  man  ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 
By  which  he  spealis  the  language  of  his  heart,        105 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  soimd. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flow'r  to  flow"r,  so  he  from  land  to  land; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans ;  110 

He  sucks  intelligence  in  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     1  tread  his  deck, 
Ascend  his  topmast  through  his  peering  eyes  1 15 

Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes  ; 
While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
P«.uns  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

O  Winter,  ruier  of  th"  inverted  year,  120 

Thy  scatterd  ha.ir  with  sleet  lilie  ashes  fiU'd, 
Thy  breath  congeai'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  crieeks 
Fringd  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Thau  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne  125 

A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheek, 


80  THE  TASK. 

But  urgu  by  stornis  along  its  slipp'ry  way, 

I  love  thee,  ail  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art !  Thou  hold'st  the  sun 

A  prisner  in  the  yet  undawning  east,  130 

Short'ning  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 

And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  west :  but  kindly  still 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 

Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease,  135 

And  gath'ring,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 

The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispers'd  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 

I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 

Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness,  140 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 

Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 

Of  long,  uninterrupted  ev'ning  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates ; 

No  powder 'd  pert  proficient  in  the  art  145 

Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 

Till  the  street  rings  ;  no  stationary  steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake  ; 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task,  150 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flowT, 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 

Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  dispos'd, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair  ;  155 

A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  or  flow'rs  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 

Made  vocal  for  th'  amusement  of  the  rest :  159 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shalies  out ; 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still. 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  81 

On  female  industry  :  the  threaded  steel  165 

Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  clos'd,  the  customary  rites 

Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal: 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 

Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note,  170 

Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 

And  under  an  old  oak's  domestick  shade, 

Enjoy'd,  spare  feast !  a  radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 

Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play  175 

Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth  : 

Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  World, 

Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 

That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 

Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise  180 

A  jarring  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone 

Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 

While  we  retrace  with  Mem'ry's  pointing  wand, 

That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 

The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare,     165 

The  disappointed  foe,  deliv'rance  found 

Unlook'd  for,  life  preserv'd,  and  peace  restor'd — 

Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 

O  ev'nings  worthy  of  the  gods!  exclaim 'd 

The  Sabine  bard.     O  ev'nings,  I  reply,  190 

More  to  be  priz'd  and  coveted  than  yours, 

As  more  illumin'd,  and  with  nobler  truths. 

That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  Winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this  .'' 
Needs  he  the  tragick  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps,         195 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsav'ry  throng, 
To  thaw  him  into  feeling,  or  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue,  that  flippant  Avits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile  ? 
The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views  200 

(Stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  a  full  house) 
Tiie  slope  of  faces,  from  the  floor  to  th'  roof 


62  THE  TASK. 

(As  if  one  master  spring  controU'd  them  all,) 

Relax'd  into  a  universal  grin, 

Sees  not  a  count'nance  there,  that  speaks  of  joy     205 

Half  so  refin'd  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 

Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks 

That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contrivd 

To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnish'd  brain, 

To  palliate  dulness,  and  give  time  a  shove.  210 

Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 

Unsoil'd,  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound  ; 

But  the  world's  Time  is  Time  in  masquerade  ! 

Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledg'd, 

With  motley  plumes  ;  and  where  the  peacock  shows 

His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctur'd  black  and  red  216 

With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form, 

Ensanguin'd  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife, 

And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 

What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hourglass  once,  220 

Becomes  a  dicebox,  and  a  billiard  mace 

Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  sithe. 

Thus  deck'd,  he  charms  a  World  whom  Fashion  blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleas'd  when  idle  most: 

Whose  only  happy,  are  their  idle  hours.  225 

E'en  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 

The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 

Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school 

Of  card  devoted  Time,  and,  night  by  night, 

Plac'd  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board,  230 

Learn  ev'ry  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 

But  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove, 

Where  shall  I  find  an  end,  or  how  proceed  ? 

As  he  that  travels  far  oft  turns  aside, 

To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mould'ring  tow'r,      235 

Which  seen,  delights  him  not ;  then  coming  home, 

Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  v/orld  may  know 

How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth  : 

So  I,  with  brush  in  hand  and  pallet  spread, 

With  colours  mix'd  for  a  far  diffrent  use,  240 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  83 

Paint  cards,  and  dolls,  and  ev'ry  idle  thing, 
That  Fancy  finds  in  her  exc\irsive  flights. 

Come,  Evning,  once  again,  season  of  peace, 
Return,  sweet  Ev'ning,  and  continue  long  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west,  246 

With  matron  step  slow -moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employ'd 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charg'd  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  :  2o0 

Not  sumptuously  adorn'd,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like  homely-featur'd  Night,  of  clust'ring  gems } 
A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 
Suffices  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high  255 

With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift ;  2G0 

And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  musick,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please ; 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still.         2G6 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 
Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk  270 

Whole  without  stooping,  tow'ring  crest  and  all, 
My  pleasures,  too,  begin.     But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  awhile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits  275 

Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quiv'ring  flame, 
Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlour  twiliglit :  Buch  a  gloom 


64  THE  TASK. 

Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 

The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme      280 

Pregnant,  or  indispos'd  alike  to  all. 

Laugh  ye,  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  pow'rs, 

Tha4;  never  feel  a  stupor,  know  no  pause, 

Nor  need  one  ;  I  am  conscious,  and  confess 

Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think.  285 

Me  oft  has  Fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 

Sooth'd  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  tow'rs, 

Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  express'd 

In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 

I  gaz'd,  myself  creating  what  I  saw.  290 

Nor  less  amus'd  have  I  quiescent  watch'd 

The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 

Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 

Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 

Though  still  deceiv'd,  some  stranger's  near  approach. 

'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose  296 

In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought. 

And  sleeps,  and  is  refreshd.     Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  rnood  lethargick  with  a  mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man  300 

Were  task'd  to  his  full  strength,  absorb'd  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclin'd  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 

At  ev'ning,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 

The  recollected  pow'rs  ;  and  snapping  short  S05 

The  glassy  threads,  with  which  the  Fancy  weaves 

Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess ;  and  how  the  frost. 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 

The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy 'd  within  !  310 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day, 

A  variegated  show  ;  the  meadov.'s  green, 

Though  faded  ;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  wav'd 

The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 

Upturn'd  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share.  315 

I  gaw  far  off  the  weedv  fallows  ^mile 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  85 

With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  graz'd 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  fav'rite  herb :  while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  th'  horizon  wore  a  sable  hue,  320 

Scarce  notic'd  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change  ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  perform'd, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes.  325 

Fast  falls  a  fleecy  show'r  :  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thick'ning  mantle  ;  and  the  green  330 

And  tender  blade,  that  fear'd  the  chilling  blast. 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side ;  335 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguish'd  than  ourselves  ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suff'ring  more.  340 

III  fares  the  trav'ller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  pond'rous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels ;  and  in  its  sluggish  paco     y45 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 
While  ev'ry  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forc'd  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  form'd  to  bear        350 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  half  shut  eyes,  and  pucker'd  cheeks,  and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat.  save  when  with  bafli 

Vor..  IT.  S 


86  THE  TASK. 

He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

O  happy  ;  and  in  my  account  denied 

That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 

Refinement  is  endu"d,  thrice  happy  tliou  ! 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 

The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair'd. 

The  learn'd  finger  never  need  explore 

Thy  vig'rous  pulse  ;  and  the  unheathful  east, 

That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  ev'ry  bone 

Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 

Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care  ; 

Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife  ;  and  the  poor  beasts, 

That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 

Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly  ;  rude  as  thou  appear'st, 

Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy  !  which  the  great, 

With  needless  hurry  whirl'd  from  place  to  place, 

Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  ev'ry  feeling  heart. 
Warm'd,  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood  blazing  clear, 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well  j 
And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cow'ring  o'er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warm'd. 
The  man  feels  least,  as  more  inur'd  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  mov'd  by  his  severer  toil; 
Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguish'd,  which  I  saw 
Pangled  along  at  the  cold  finger's  end 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  87 

Just  when  the  day  declin'd  :  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodg'd  on  the  shelf  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  sav'ry  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still;  395 

Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  :  for,  alas ! 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chain'd. 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few  ! 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     All  the  care, 
Ingenious  Parsimony  takes,  but  just  400 

Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed,  and  stool, 
Skillet,  and  old  carv'd  chest,  from  publick  sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands  :  but  other  boast  have  none, 
To  sooth  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg,        405 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 
For  ye  are  worthy  ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn'd, 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure  410 

The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ;  lib'ral  of  their  aid 
To  clam'rous  Importunity  in  rags, 
But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants,  who  would  blush   415 
To  wear  a  tatter'd  garb,  however  coarse, 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  : 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refus'd 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire  ! 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage  !  Time  itself  420 

Shall  much  befriend  you.     Time  shall  give  increase  ; 
And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  train'd, 
But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands. 
And  labour  too.     Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare,      425 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ol^rselves  may  send. 
I  mean  the  man,  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 
But  poverty  with  most,  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  wo  ;  430 


88  THE  TASK. 

The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder  ;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong.  435 

Wo  to  the  gard'ner's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge, 
Plash'd  neatly,  and  secur'd  with  driven  stakes 
Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.     Uptorn  by  strength, 
Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil,  440 

An  ass's  burden,  and,  when  laden  most 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot,  steals  fast  away 
Nor  does  the  bordered  hovel  better  guard 
The  well-stack'd  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 
From  his  pernicious  force.     Nor  will  he  leave         445 
Unwrench'd  the  door,  however  well  secur'd, 
Where  Chanticleer  amidst  his  haram  sleeps 
In  unsuspecting  pomp.     Twitch'd  from  the  perch, 
He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 
To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain,  450 

And  loudly  wond'ring  at  the  sudden  change. 
Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.     'Tvvere  some  excuse 
Did  pity  of  their  suff'rings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 
For  their  support,  so  destitute.     But  they  455 

Neglected,  pine  at  home  ;  themselves,  as  more 
Expos'd  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robb'd  of  their  defenceless  all. 
Cruel  is  all  he  does.     'Tis  quenchless  thirst 
Of  ruinous  ebriety,  that  prompts  460 

His  ev'ry  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 
O  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck 
Who  starves  his  own  ;  who  persecutes  the  blood 
He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and  hates 
And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love  !        465 
Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through  town, 
Village  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 
Though  lean  and  beggar'd,  every  twentieth  pace 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  89 

Conducts  tli'  unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whifF 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth-issuing  from  the  sties  470 

That  law  has  licensed,  as  makes  Temp'rance  reel. 
There  sit,  involv'd  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor, 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom  ;  the  craftsman  there 
Takes  a  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil  ,  475 

Smith,  cobbler,  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough :  all  loud  alike, 
All  learned  and  all  drunk  !  the  fiddle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  -vvail'd 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard,  480 

Fierce  the  dispute,  whatc'er  the  theme  ;  while  she, 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 
Perch'd  on  the  signpost,  holds  with  even  hand 
Her  undecisive  scales.     In  this  she  lays 
A  weight  of  ignorance  ;  in  that,  of  pride  ;  485 

And  smiles  delighted  with  the  eternal  poise. 
Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound, 
The  cheek  distending  oath,  not  to  be  prais'd 
As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 

Like  those  w^hich  modern  senators  employ,  400 

Whose  oath  is  rhet'rick,  and  who  swear  for  fame  ! 
Behold  the  schools,  in  which  plebeian  minds. 
Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts 
Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace, 
But  none  with  readier  skill  I — "Tis  here  they  learn 
The  read  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace     496 
To  indigence  and  rapine  ;  till  at  last 
Society,  grown  weary  of  ihe  load, 
Shakes  her  encumber'd  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 
But  censure  profits  little  ;  vain  th"  attempt  500 

To  advertise  in  verse  a  publick  pest. 
That,  like  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 
His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 
Th'  excise  is  fatten"d  with  the  rich  result 
Of  all  this  riot ;  and  ten  thousand  casks,  505 

For  ever  dribbling  out  tlieir  base  contents, 


90  THE  TASK. 

Touch'd  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state. 

Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 

Drink,  and  be  mad  then  ;  'tis  your  country  bids  I 

Gloriously  drunk,  obey  th'  important  call.'  510 

Her  cause  demands  th'  assistance  of  your  throats  j 

Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  moiw). 

Would  I  had  fall'n  upon  those  happier  days 
That  poets  celebrate  :  those  golden  times, 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings,  515 

And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetick  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts 
That  felt  their  virtues  :  Innocence,  it  seems. 
From  courts  dismiss'd,  found  shelter  in  the  groves ; 
The  footsteps  of  simplicity,  impress'd  52ft 

Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  sing.) 
Then  were  not  all  efFac'd  :  then  speech  profane, 
And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 
Observ'd  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim'd. 
Vain  wish  !  those  days  were  never  ;  airy  dreams    52J> 
Sat  for  the  picture  :  and  the  poet's  hand, 
Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 
Impos'd  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it :  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 
That  favour'd  such  a  dream  :  in  days  like  these      530 
Impossible  when  Virtue  is  so  scarce. 
That  to  suppose  a  scene  wliere  she  presides 
Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief. 
No  :  we  are  polish'd  now      The  rural  lass, 
Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace,  535 

Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire, 
So  dignified,  that  she  was  liavdly  less 
Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 
Is  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost  ! 
Her  head,  adorn'd  with  lappets  pinn'd  aloft,  540 

And  ribands  streaming  gay,  superbly  rais'd, 
And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size, 
Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 
For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains  t 


THE  WINTER  EVEiNING.  9J 

Her  elbows  ruffled,  and  her  tott'ring  form  543 

111  propp'd  upon  French  heels  ;  she  might  be  deem'd 

(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 

Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank 

Too  proud  for  dairy  work,  or  sale  of  eggs — 

Expect  her  soon  with  footboy  at  her  heels,  550 

No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 

Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care  ! 

The  town  has  ting'd  the  country  ;  and  the  stain 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe. 
The  worse  for  what  it  soils.     The  fashion  runs       555 
Down  into  scenes  still  rural ;  but,  alas, 
Scenes  rarely  gracd  with  rural  manners  now  ! 
Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 
Th'  unguarded  door  was  safe  ;  men  did  not  watch 
T'  invade  another's  right,  or  gaard  their  own.  560 

Then  sleep  was  undisturb'd  by  fear,  unscar'd 
By  drunken  howlings  ;  and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 
But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights,  565 

And  slumbers  unalarm'd  !  Now,  ere  you  sleep. 
See  that  your  polish'd  arms  be  prim'd  with  care, 
And  drop  the  night-bolt ; — ruffians  are  abroad  ; 
And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a  trumpet,  summoning  your  ear  570 

To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 
E'en  daylight  has  its  dangers  ;  and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  vrastes  and  woods,  unconscious  once 
Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds, 
Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold.  575 

Lamented  change  !  to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Invet'rate,  hopeless  of  a  cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill, 
F^om  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  pow'r  begets  inr.roase  of  wealth  j  580 

^  health  luxury,  and  luxury  excess  ; 
Kxces?,  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague, 


Dri  THE  TASK. 

That  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 

To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 

Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale  585 

Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 

The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 

The  license  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 

Desert  their  office  ;  and  themselves,  intent 

On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus  590 

To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 

Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 

Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps, 

Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 

The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears  595 

The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 

His  rev'rence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 

On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 

Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm  ; 

When  he  should  strike  he  trembles,  and  sets  free,  COO 

Himself  enslav'd  by  terrour  of  the  band — 

Th'  audacious  convict  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 

Perhaps  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure, 

He,  too,  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 

Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside  G05 

In  lucrative  concerns.     Examine  well 

His!  milk-white  hand  ;  the  palm  is  harldly  clean — 

But  here  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 

Foh  !  'twas  a  bribe  that  left  it :  he  has  touch'd 

Corruption.     Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here  610 

Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish, 

Wild  fowl  or  venison :  and  his  errand  speeds. 

But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  which  none,  who  bears  a  spark 
Of  publicK.  virtue,  ever  wish"d  remov'd,  015 

Works  the  deplored  and  mischievous  effect. 
'Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabb'd 
The  heart  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 
Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause,  C^ 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  9S 

S'ftcm  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  good, 
And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 
The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guile, 
Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance  of  all 
But  his  owTi  simple  pleasures ;  now  and  then  625 

A  wrestling  match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair ; 
Is  balloted,  and  trembles  at  the  news  : 
Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and  mumbling  swears 
A  bible  oath  to  be  whaie'er  they  please, 
To  do  he  knows  not  what.     The  task  perform'd,     630 
That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant's  care, 
His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 
His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 
Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 
Procure  him  many  a  curse.     By  slow  degrees,        635 
Unapt  to  learn,  and  form'd  of  stubborn  stuff, 
He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 
Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  and  likes  it  well: 
He  stands  erect  :  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk ; 
He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air,  640 

His  form  and  movement  ;  is  as  smart  above 
As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him  ;  wears 
His  hat,  or  his  plumd  helmet,  with  a  grace  ; 
And,  his  three  years  of  herdship  expir'd, 
Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough.  645 

He  hates  the  field,  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 
Attends  him  ;  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march  ; 
And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left. 
'Twere  well  if  his  exteriour  change  were  ail- 
But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost  650 
His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too. 
To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink  ;  to  show  at  home 
By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbath  breach, 
The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad  ; 
T'  astonish,  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends  ;  655 
To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  mother's  heart: 
To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once  ; 
Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now. 


94  THE  TASK. 

Man  in  society  is  like  a  flow'r 
Blown  in  its  native  bed  ;  'tis  there  alone  6G0 

His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 
Shine  out ;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 
But  man,  associated  and  leagued  with  man 
By  regal  warrant  or  self-join'd  by  bond 
For  int'rest  sake,  or  swarming  into  clans  665 

Beneatli  one  head  for  purposes  of  war, 
Like  flow'rs  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 
And  bundled  close  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 
Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr'd, 
Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endur'd.  670 

Hence  charter'd  boroughs  are  such  publick  plagues 
And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 
In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combin'd, 
Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 
For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main.  675 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 
Against  the  charities  of  dornestick  life, 
Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 
Their  nature  ;  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 
For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man,  680 

Build  factories  witli  blood,  conducting  trade 
At  the  sword's  point,  and  dying  the  white  robe 
Of  innocent  commercial  Justice  red. 
Hence,  too,  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 
Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array,  685 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thund'ring  pomp, 
Enchanting  musick,  and  immortal  wreaths, 
Is  but  a  school,  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 
On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 
For  folly,  gallantry  for  ev'ry  vice.  690 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandon'd,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret, 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
1  never  fram'd  a  wish,  or  form'd  a  plan,  695 

That  flatter'd  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 


THE  WLXTEIl  EVENING.  05 

But  there  I  laid  the  scene.     There  early  stray'd 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural ;  rural  too  700 

The  first-born  eiforts  of  m}'  youthful  muse, 
Sportive  and  jingling  her  poetick  bells, 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  pow'rs. 
'So  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tun'd 
To  Nature's  praises.     Pleroes  and  their  feats  705 

Fatigud  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang. 
The  rustick  throng  beneath  his  fav'rite  beecli. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms  : 
New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpass'd  710 

The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence.     I  danc'd  for  joy. 
I  marvell'd  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 
Engag'd  my  wonder  ;  and  admiring  still,  715 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  suppos'd 
The  joy  half  lost,  because  not  sooner  found. 
There,  too.  enamour 'd  of  the  life  I  lov'd, 
Pathetick  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 
Determin'd  and  possessing  it  at  last,  720 

With  transports  such  as  favour'd  lovers  feel, 
I  studied,  priz'd,  and  wish'd  that  I  had  known, 
Ingenious  Cov.'ley  !  and,  though  now  reclaimed 
By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 
I  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit  725 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 
I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retir'd; 
Though  stretch'd  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bow'rs, 
Not  unemploy'd  ;  and  finding  rich  amends 
For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse.  730 

'Tjs  born  with  all :  the  love  of  Nature's  works 
Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 
InfSs'd  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 
And,  though  tH'  Almightv  Maker  has  throughout 


96  THE  TASK. 

Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes  73S 

And  touches  of  his  hand,  with  so  much  art 
Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 
Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all 
That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works, 
And  all  can  taste  them  :  minds  that  have  been  form'd 
And  tutor'd  with  a  relish  more  exact,  741 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmov'd. 
It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 
Where  nothing  feeds  it :  neither  business,  crowds, 
Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life,  745 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 
In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 
The  villas,  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 
Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads 
Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadult'rate  air  750 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 
The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame  ! 
E'en  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town 
A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 
That  sooth  the  rich  possessor  ;  much  consol'd,        755 
That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint 
Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 
He  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint 
That  Nature  lives  ;  that  sight-refreshing  green 
Is  still  the  liv'ry  she  delights  to  wear,  760 

Though  sickly  samples  of  th'  exub'rant  whole. 
What  are  the  casements  lin'd  with  creeping  herbs, 
The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 
Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 
The  Frenchman's  darling  .''*  are  they  not  all  proofs, 
That  man,  immur'd  in  cites,  still  retains  766 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 
Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 
By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may  .'' 
The  most  unfurnish'd  with  the  means  of  life,  770 

And  they,  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds, 
*  Mignionelte. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING.  97 

To  range  the  fields,  and  treat  their  lungs  witn  air, 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct  ;  over  head 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes  planted  thick, 

And  water'd  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands  775 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  teapot  there  ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 

The  country,  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 

A  peep  at  Nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease,       780 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys, 
And  harmless  pleasures  in  the  throng'd  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  !  hail,  rural  life  ' 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emolument,  or  fcime  ;  785 

I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents.     And  God  gives  to  ev'ry  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste,  790 

That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordain'd  to  fill. 
To  the  deliverer  of  an  injur "d  land 
He  gives  a  tongue  t'  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress,  her  wrongs;  795 

To  monarchs  dignity  ;  to  judges  sense  ; 
To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 
To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long  SCO 

Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I  wish'd. 

Vol.  II.  9 


THE  TASK, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

A  frosty  morning — The  foddering  of  cattle — The  woodman  ami 
his  dog — The  poultry — Whimsical  efl'ects  of  a  frost  at  a  waterfall 
— The  empress  of  Russia's  palace  of  ice — Amusements  of  mo- 
narchs — Vv^ar,  one  of  them — Wars,  whence — And  whence  mo- 
narchy— The  evils  of  it — English  and  French  loyalty  contrasted 
— The  Bastile,  and  a  prisoner  there — Liherty  the  chief  recom- 
mendation of  this  country — Modern  patriotism  questionable, 
and  why — The  perishable  nature  of  the  best  human  institutions 
— Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable — The  slavish  state  of  man  by 
nature — Deliver  him,  Deist,  if  you  can — Grace  must  do  it — The 
respective  merits  of  patriots  and  martyrs  stated — Their  diiferent 
treatment— JIappy  freedom  of  tlie  man  whom  grace  makes  free — 
His  lelish  of  the  "works  of  God — Address  to  the  Creator. 


'TIS  morning  ;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 

Ascending,  fires  th'  horizon  ;  while  the  clouds 

That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 

More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 

Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze,  5 

Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 

Slides  ineftectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 

And,  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 

From  ev'ry  herb  and  ev'ry  spiry  blade 

Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field.  10 

Mine  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 

In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.        99 

That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 

Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance, 

I  view  the  muscular  proportion 'd  limb  15 

Transform'd  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair, 

As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side, 

Take  step  for  step  ;  and,  as  I  near  approach 

The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plaster'd  wall, 

Prepost'rous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man.  20 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 

Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents, 

And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 

Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 

Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad,  25 

And,  fledg'd  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 

The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 

Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 

In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 

Their  wonted  fodder  ;  not  like  hungring  man,  30 

Fretful  if  unsupplied  ;  but  silent,  meek. 

And  patient  of  the  slow-pac'd  swain's  delay. 

He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustom'd  load, 

Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  oft. 

His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  soUd  mass  ;  35 

Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 

With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 

He  severs  it  away  ;  no  needless  care, 

Lest  storm  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 

Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanc'd  \A'eight.  40 

Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcern'd 

The  cheerful  haunts  of  man  ;  to  wield  the  axe, 

And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear, 

From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 

Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears      45 

And  tail  cropp'd  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur — 

His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 

Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 

Wide-scamp'ring,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 

With  iv'ry  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout  \         50 


100  THE  TASK. 

Then  shakes  his  powder'd  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught, 
But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
T'  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube,  55 

That  fumes  beneath  his  nose  :  the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 
Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighb'ring  pale 
Where  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  side,  60 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well  known  call 
The  feather'd  tribes  domestick.     Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  shelt'ring  eaves,    65 
To  seize  the  fair  occasion  ;    well  they  eye 
The  scatter'd  grain,  and  thievishly  resolv'd 
T'  escape  th'  impending  famine,  often  scar'd 
As  oft  return — a  pert  voracious  kind. 
Ci3an  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care  70 

Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resign'd 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut ;  and,  wading  at  their  head 
With  well-consider'd  steps,  seems  to  resent  75 

His  alter'd  gait,  and  stateUness  retrenched. 
How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 
Due  sustenance,  or  v/here  subsist  they  now .'' 
Earth  yields  them  naught ;  th'  imprison'd  worm  is 
safe  60 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  cover'd  close  ;  and  berry-bearing  thorns, 
That  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose,) 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long-protracted  rigour  of  the  year  85 

Thins  all  their  num'rous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  holes 
Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       101 
As  instinct  prompts ;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 
The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 
Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  nor  earth  nut,  now      90 
Repays  their  labour  more  ;  and  perch"d  aloft 
By  tlie  way-side,  or  stalking  in  the  path. 
Lean  pensioners  upon  the  trav'ller's  track, 
Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 
Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain.  95 

The  streams  arc  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 
O'erwhelming  all  distinction.     On  the  flood, 
Indurated  and  fixd,  the  snovvy  weight 
Lies  undissolvd  ;  while  silently  beneath. 
And  unpcrceiv'd,  the  current  steals  away.  100 

Not  so  where,  scornful  of  a  check,  it  leaps 
The  mill-dam.  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel. 
And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below : 
No  frost  can  bind  it  there  :  its  utmost  force 
Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist,  105 

That  in  its  fall  the  licuid  sheet  throws  wide. 
And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroider'd  banks 
"With  forms  so  various,  that  no  pov/'rs  of  art, 
The  pencil,  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene  ! 
Here  glitfring  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high,  110 

(Fantastick  misarrangenient !)  on  the  roof 
Large  grovv'th  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  trees 
And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops 
That  trickled  down  the  branches,  fast  congcal'd, 
Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length,  115 

And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adornd  before. 
Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 
The  sunbeam  ;  there,  ernboss'd  and  fretted  wild, 
The  growing  wonder  takes  a  thousand  shapes 
Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain  120 

The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 
Thus  N  iture  works  as  if  to  mock  at  Art, 
And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  pov/'rs ; 
By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 
Performing  such  inimitable  fcats;  125 


102  THE  TASK. 

As  she  witli  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admir'd, 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ, 

Thy  most  magnficent  and  mighty  freak,  130 

The  wonder  of  the  North.     No  forest  fell 

When  thou  wouldst  build  ;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores, 

T'  enrich  thy  walls  :  but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a  palace  Aristaeus  found  135 

Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maturnal  ear: 

In  such  a  palace  poetry  might  place 

The  armoury  of  Winter  ;  where  his  troops, 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet       140 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 

And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  traveler's  course. 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabrick  rose  ; 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there  :  145' 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 

Were  soon  conjoind,  nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  interfusd,  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  dispos'd.  and  of  all  hues, 

lUumin'd  ev'ry  side  :  a  wat'ry  light  150 

Gleam'd  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem'd 

Another  moon  new  ris'n,  or  meteor  fall'n 

From  Heav'n  to  Earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy  ;  though  smooth 

And  slippry  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound  155 

Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught  within 

That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  vvavy  wreaths 

Of  flow'rs  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

Blush  d  on  the  pannels.     Mirror  needed  none  IGO 

Where  all  was  vitreous  ;  but  in  order  due 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seera'd  at  least  commodioxis  seat)  were  there  ; 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      103 
Sofa,  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 
The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all,  165 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch  ;  a  scene 
Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 
And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 
Alas  1  'twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 
Of  undesign'd  severity,  that  glanc'd,  170 

(Made  by  a  monarch.)  on  her  own  estate, 
On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 
'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 
'Twas  durable  ;  as  worthless,  as  it  seem'd 
Intrinsically  precious  ;  to  the  foot  175 

Treach'rous  and  false  ;  it  smil'd,  and  it  was  cold. 

Great  princes  have  great  play-things.     Some  have 
play'd 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain-high. 
Some  have  amus'd  the  dull,  sad  years  of  life,  180 

(Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad,) 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame ;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short  liv'd  themselves,  f  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field,  185 

And  Biake  tl\e  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  wars  a  game,  which,  were  their  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  play  at.     Nations  would  do  well, 
T'  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds  190 

Are  gratified  with  mischief;  and  who  spoil, 
Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy,  the  world. 

When  Babe]  was  conf funded,  and  the  great 
Confed"rac3'  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  spht  into  diversity  of  tun-iues,  195 

Then,  as  a  shepherd  .separates  iiis  flock, 
These  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 
God  drove  asunder,  and  assign'd  their  lot 
To  all  the  nations.     Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair  .200 


l^U  THE  TASK. 

And  equal  ;  and  he  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 

Peace  was  awliile  their  care  ;  they  plough'd.  Jind  sow'd, 

And  reap'd  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife. 

But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep 

Than  human  passions  please.     In  every  heart         205 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war  ; 

Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze. 

Cain  had  already  shod  a  brothers  blood  : 

The  deluge  wash'd  it  out ;  but  left  unquench"d 

The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man,  210 

Soon  by  a  righteous  judgment  in  the  line 

Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 

The  first  artificer  of  death  ;  the  shrewd 

Contriver,  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge,. 

And  forc'd  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel  215 

To  a  keen  edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 

Him,  Tubal  nam'd,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 

The  sword  and  filchion  their  inventor  claim  ; 

And  the  first  smith  was  the  first  murdrer's  son. 

His  art  surviv'd  the  waters  ;  and  ere  long,  220 

When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 

In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 

These  meadows  ami  that  range  of  hills  his  own, 

The  tasted  sweets  of  propcrt}'  begat 

Desire  of  more  ;  and  inaustry  in  some,  225 

T'  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne, 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

Thus  war  began  on  Earth  :  these  fought  for  spoil, 

And  those  in  self-defence.     Savage  at  first 

The  onset,  and  irregular.     At  length  230 

One  eminent  above  the  rest  for  strength, 

For  stratagem,  for  courage,  or  for  all, 

Wa«  chosen  leader  ;  him  they  sorv'd  in  w^ar, 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds, 

Rev'renc'd  no  les'.j.     Who  could  with  him  compare  ? 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves,  236 

As  he,  whose  prowess  had  subdu'd  their  foes  ? 

Thire  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      105 
Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace, 
Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call  240 

For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 
King  was  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  v/ear 
With  modesty  and  meekness  ;  and  the  crown 
So  dazzling  in  their  eyes,  who  set  it  on, 
Was  sure  t'  intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound  245 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 
That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 
And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves, 
They  sink,  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 
They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  within  250 

A  comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 
Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 
Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 
For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move. 
Conscious  of  impotence  they  soon  grow  drunk        255 
With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 
Step  forth  to  notice  ;  and,  besotted  thus, 
Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  "  Stand  there, 
"  And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise." 
They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust,  2^0 

Then  most  deserving  in  their  own  account 
When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 
As  if,  exalting  him,  they  rais'd  themselves. 
Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 
And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man,  S65 

They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so. 
That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 
Inflated  and  astrut  with  self  conceit. 
He  gulps  the  windy  diet ;  and  ere  long, 
Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks  279 

The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 
Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle  ;  drudges,  born 
To  bear  his  burdens,  drawing  in  his  gears. 
And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 
Becomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all.  .275 

He  deems  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand  lives-. 


100  THE  TASK. 

Spent  in  tlie  purchase  of  renown  for  him, 

An  easy  reck'ning  :  and  they  think  the  same. 

Thus  kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  kings 

Were  burnish'd  into  heroes,  and  became  280 

The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp  ; 

Storks  among  frogs,  that  have  but  croak'd  and  died. 

Strange,  that  such  folly,  as  lifts  bloated  man 

To  eminence,  fit  only  for  a  god. 

Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips,  285 

E'en  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world  ! 

Still  stranger  much,  that,  when  at  length  mankind 

Had  reachd  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 

And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 

On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet  290 

Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 

And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made  : 

But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 

Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 

By  some  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevail'd,  295 

Can  even  nov,'',  when  they  are  grown  mature 

In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophick  deeds 

Familiar,  serve  t'  emancipate  the  rest ! 

Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 

To  rev'rence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead  300 

A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use. 

That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 

Because  dcliver'd  down  frorn  sire  to  son, 

Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing. 

But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock  305 

Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  m.an. 

Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men 

Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 

And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet 

As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules,  31(^ 

Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 

Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 

Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 

Wage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      107 

or  provocation  giv'n,  or  wrong  sustain'd,  315 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit  hy  means 

That  his  own  humour  dictates,  from  the  clutch 

Of  Poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 

His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life, 

A  splendid  opportunity  to  die  ?  «20 

Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 

J-otham  ascrib'd  to  his  assembled  trees 

In  politick  convention)  put  your  trust 

I'  th'  shadow  of  a  bramble,  and,  reclin'd 

In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dangrous  branch,        325 

Rejoice  in  him,  and  celebrate  his  sway, 

Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude  ?     Whence  springs 

Your  self-denying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good 

To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 

His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise  ?        2^30 

We  too  are  friends  to  loyalty.    We  love 

The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  Ids  bounds, 

And  reigns  content  within  them  :  him  we  serve 

Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free  : 

But  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man,  335 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  he  be. 

And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  pow'rs, 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant !         340 

Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.     He  is  ours, 

T'  administer,  to  guard,  t'  adorn  the  state, 

But  not  to  v^rarp  or  change  it.     We  are  his, 

To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 

True  to  the  death  ;  but  not  to  be  his  slaves.  345 

INIark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  lore 

Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 

We  love  the  man  ;  the  paltry  pageant,  you : 

W^e  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth  ; 

You,  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes :  350 

We,  for  the  sake  of  hberty,  a  king  ; 

You,  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake 


108  THE  TASK. 

Our  love  is  principle,  and  nas  its  root 

In  reason  ;  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 

Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod,  355 

And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 

Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 

Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 

I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  belov'd 

Causeless,  and  daub'd  with  undiscerning  praise,      360 

Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 

Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  suflTrance,  and  at  wUl 
Of  a  superiour,  he  is  never  free. 

Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life  365 

Expos'd  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 
The  state  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foil'd, 
And  forc'd  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attempt, 
And  pity  for  her  loss.    But  that's  a  cause  370 

Not  often  unsuccossfiil :  pow'r  usurp'd 
Is  weakness  when  oppos'd  ;  conscious  of  wrong, 
'Tie  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 
But  slaves,  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 
Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess  375 

All  that  the  contest  calls  for  ;  spirit,  strength, 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts  ; 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats,  380 

Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land, 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  aveng'd  on  Pharaoh — the  Bastile 
Ye  horrid  tow'rs,  th'  abode  of  broken  hearts : 
Ye  dungeons,  and  ye  cages  of  despair,  385 

That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 

•  The  author  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  un- 
necessary warmth  upon  so  interesting  a  subject.  He  is 
aware,  that  it  is  become  ahnost  fashionable,  to  stigmatize 
such  sentiments  as  no  better  than  empty  declamation  ;  but  it 
is  an  ill  symptom;  and  peculiar  to  modern  times. 


THE  WL\TER  MORNING  WALK.      109 

With  musick,  such  as  suits  their  sov'reign  ears — 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men  ! 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last ;  to  know  390 

That  e'en  our  enemies,  sc  oft  employ "d 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 
For  he  who  values  Liberty,  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No  narrow  bounds  ;  her  cause  engages  him  395 

Wherever  pleaded.     'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Immur'd  though  unaccus'd,  condemn'd  untried, 
Cruelly  spar'd,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 
There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen  400 

By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stump, 
And,  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 
Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 
To  count  the  hour-bell  and  expect  no  change ; 
And  ever  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard,  405 

Still  to  reflect,  that,  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  musick  ;  that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocnnd  feast,  or  ball ;  410 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  releasee 
From  labour  ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  ev'ry  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight — 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought  415 

To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  wo 
Contrives,  hard  shifting,  and  without  her  tools — 
To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 
In  stagg'ring  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own—  420 

To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorg'd 
And  bloatefl  spider,  till  the  pamper'd  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 
Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend — 
VoL.TI.  10 


110  THE  TASK. 

To  wear  out  time  in  numb 'ring  to  and  fro  425 

The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door  ; 

Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant, 

And  then  aUernate  ;  with  a  sickly  hope 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 

Some  relish  ;  till  the  sum,  exactly  found  430 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again — 

O  comfortless  existence  I  hemm'd  around 

With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 

And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man,      435 

Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 

Upon  th'  endearments  of  domestick  life 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word  440 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 

Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king, 

(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god, 

Ador'd  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy.  445 

'Tis  liberty  alone,  that  gives  the  flow'r 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  j 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Is  evil :  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes  450 

Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science  ;  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  Discovery  ;  and  begets, 
In  those  that  suffer  it,  a  sordid  mind, 
Bestial,  a  meager  intellect,  unfit 

To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form.  455 

Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art. 
With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeez'd 
By  publick  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  -lunger  of  the  state, 
Thee  1  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief  460 

Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free ; 
My  native  nook  of  earth  !  Thy  clime  is  rude, 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       Ill 
Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine  : 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft  465 

And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 
And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art, 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  Nature's  bounty — that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is  470 

In  converse,  either  starv  d  by  cold  reserve, 
Or  flushd  by  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless  brawl. 
Yet,  being  free,  I  love  thee  :  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 
Disgrac'd  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art,  475 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 
But  once  enslav'd,  farewell !  I  could  endure 
Chains  no  where  patiently  ;  and  chains  at  home, 
Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 
Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain       450 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.     I  should  then  with  double  pain 
Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime  ; 
And,  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost,  485 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 
I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere  ; 
In  scenes,  which  having  never  known  me  free, 
Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt.  490 

Do  1  forebode  impossible  events. 
And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ?  Heav"n  grant  I  may ! 
But  th'  age  of  virtuous  politicks  is  past, 
And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 
Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere,  495 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.     He  that  takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Designed  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  (themselves  the  slaves  of  lust.) 
Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith  500 


112  THE  TASK. 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 
For  when  was  publick  virtue  to  be  found, 
Where  private  was  not  ?  Can  he  love  the  whole, 
Who  loves  no  part  ?  Ho  be  a  nation's  friend, 
Who  is  in  trutli  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ?  505 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause, 
Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  belov'd  ? 

'Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale  510 

And  sickly,  w^hile  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes, 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  gen'ral  weal. 
Such  were  they  not  of  old,  whose  temper'd  blades  515 
Dispers'd  the  shackles  of  usurp'd  control, 
And  hew'd  them  link  from  link  ;  then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed  ;  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  w-itliin  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs ) 
And,  shining  each  in  his  domestick  sphere,  520 

Shone  brighter  still,  once  call'd  to  publick  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester'd  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 
And  seehig  the  old  castle  of  the  state,  525 

That  promis'd  once  more  firmness,  so  assail'd, 
That  all  its  tem-pest-beaten  turrets  shake, 
Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below  ;  the  fatal  hour 
Was  register 'd  in  Heav  n  ere  time  began.  530 

We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too  :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock ; 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabrick  stood  ;  535 

And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search'd  in  vain, 
The  undiscoverablc  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty,  unsung 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       U:i 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unprais'd, 
Which  monarchs  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  pow'rs  540 
Of  Earth  and  Hell  confed'rate  take  away  : 
A  liberty,  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  pcw'r  to  bind 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslav'd  no  more. 
'Tia  liberty  of  heart  derived  from  Heav'n,  545 

Bought  with  his  blood,  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  seal'd  with  the  same  token.     It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter  sanctiond  sure 
By  th'  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.     His  other  gifts  550 

All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  his, 
And  are  august !  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  tke  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might, 
Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word  555 

That,  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  filVd  the  void  so  well, 
And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 
But  these  are  not  his  glory.     Man,  'tis  true, 
Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene,  560 

Might  well  suppose  th'  artificer  dK^ine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  he  not  himself 
Pronounc'd  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 
And,  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 
Doom'd  it  as  insufficient  for  his  praise.  565 

These  therefore  are  occasional,  and  pass; 
Form'd  for  the  confutation  of  tho  fool, 
Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a  God  ; 
That  office  serv'd,  they  must  be  swept  away. 
Not  so  the  labours  of  his  love  ;  they  shine  579 

In  other  heav'ns  than  these  that  we  behold, 
And  fade  not.     There  is  Paradise  that  fears 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  frnits  he  sends 
Large  prelibatiun  oft  to  saints  below. 
Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge,  575 

And  confident  assurance  of  the  rest, 
10^ 


114  THE  TASK. 

Is  liberty  ;  a  flight  into  his  arms. 

Ere  yet  mortality's  fine  threads  give  way; 

A  clear  escape  from  tyrannising  lust, 

And  full  immunity  from  penal  wo.  580' 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man, 
Stripes,  and  a  dungeon  ;  and  bis  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.     In  that  sickly,  foul, 
Opprobrious  residence,  he  finds  them  all. 
Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held  5^ 

In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 
Careless  of  their  Creator.     And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  pow'rs 
To  a  vile  clod,  so  draws  him,  with  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek,  590 

That  he  at  last  forgets  it.     All  his  hopes 
Tend  downward  ;  his  ambition  is  to  sink, 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fatliomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death.  5^ 

But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
In  Heav'n-renouncin^  exile,  he  endures — 
AVhat  does  he  not,  from  lusts  oppos'd  in  vain, 
And  self-reproaching  conscience  ?  He  foresees        600 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace, 
Fortune,  and  dignity  ;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man  and  make  frail  life, 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.     Still  worse. 
Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  sins 
Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forbodes  GOG 

Ages  of  hopeless  mis'ry.     Future  death, 
And  death  still  future.     Not  a  hasty  stroke, 
Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave ; 
But  unrepealable,  enduring,  death.  €10 

Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears  : 
What  none  can  prove  a  forgery,  may  be  true  ; 
What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  must. 
That  scruple  checks  him.    Riot  is  not  loud 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.      115 
Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.     In  the  midst  Clo 

Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere  ; 
And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 
Remorse  begets  reform.     His  master-lust 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 
And  seems  dethron'd  and  vanquish  d.     Peace  ensues, 
But  spurious  and  short  liv'd  :  the  puny  child  621 

Of  seif-congratulating  Pride  begot 
On  fancied  Iraiocence.     Again  he  falls, 
And  fights  again  ;  but  finds,  his  best  essay 
A  presage  ominous,  portending  still  625 

Its  own  dishonour  by  a  worse  relapse. 
Till  Nature,  unavailing  Nature,  foil'd 
So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 
Scoffs  at  her  own  performance.     Reason  now 
Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause        630 
Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn'd  ; 
With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tatter'd  in  the  service  of  debauch, 
Cov'ring  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight, 

'•  Hath  God  indeed  givn  appetites  to  man,  035 

And  stor'd  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish ; 
And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  damn 
The  use  of  his  own  bounty  ?  making  first 
So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws  640 

So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 
Falsehood  !  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truth, 
Dishonours  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 
Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large  645 

Their  weekly  dole  of  edif^-zing  strains, 
Attend  to  their  own  musick  ?  have  they  faith 
In  what,  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 
And  gesture,  they  propound  to  our  belief.'* 
Nay — Conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue      The  voice 
Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest  651 

May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.     In  the  deed, 


116  THE  TASK. 

The  unequivocal,  authentick  deed, 

We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart." 

Such  reas'nings  (if  that  name  must  needs  belong 
T'  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part)  656 

Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclin'd 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice, 
And  sm  without  disturbance.     Often  urg'd, 
(As  often  as,  libidinous  discourse  660 

Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 
Of  theological  and  grave  import,) 
They  gain  at  last  his  unreservd  assent ; 
Till,  harden'd  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 
Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair,  665 

He  shghts  the  strokes  of  conscience.     Nothing  moves, 
Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 
Vain  tamp'ring  has  but  foster'd  his  disease  ; 
'Tis  desp'rate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 
Haste,  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free.  670 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.     Make  him  hear 
Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth 
How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure, 
Consulted  and  obey'd,  to  guide  his  steps 
Directly  to  the  first  and  only  fair.  675 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.     Spend  all  the  pow'rs 
Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise  ; 
Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 
And  with  poetick  trappings  grace  thy  prose, 
Till  it  out-mantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. —  680 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal,  and  high  sounding  brass. 
Smitten  in  vain  1  such  musick  cannot  charm 
The  eclipse,  that  intercepts  truth's  heav'nly  beam 
And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide  wand 'ring  soul. 
The  still  small  voice  is  wanted      He  must  speak,    685 
Whose  v^ord  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect ; 
Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 

Grace  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.     'Tis  a  change 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast  690 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.       117 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown, 
They  had  indeed  ability  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song ; 
But  transformation  of  apostate  man  695 

From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 
Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.     He  alone. 
And  he  by  means  in  philosophick  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder  ;  humanizing  what  is  brute  700 

In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpow'ring  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toil'd,  and,  in  their  country's  cause 
Bled  nobly  ;  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve,  705 

Receive  proud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     Th"  historick  muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times  ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 
Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass  710 

To  guard  them,  and  t'  immortalize  her  trust  : 
But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 
To  those  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 
Have  fall'n  in  her  defence.     A  patriot's  blood. 
Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeed,  715 

And,  for  a  time,  ensure  to  his  lov'd  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 
But  martyrs  struggle  for  a  brighter  prize, 
And  win  it  with  more  pain.     Their  blood  is  shed 
In  connrrnation  of  the  noblest  claim —  720 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth. 
To  walk  vath  God,  to  be  divinely  free, 
To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skiesi 
Yet  few  remember  them.     They  liv'd  unknown, 
Till  persecution  dragg'd  them  into  fame,  725 

And  chas"d  them  up  to  Heaven.     Their  ashes  flew 
— No  marble  tolls  us  whither.     With  their  names 
No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song  : 


118  THE  TASK. 

And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes, 

Is  cold  on  this.     She  execrates  indeed  730 

The  tyranny  that  doom'd  them  to  the  fire, 

But  gives  the  glorious  sufF'rers  little  praise.* 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes,  confed'rate  for  his  harm,  735 

Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  mto  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compar'd 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight,       740 
Calls  the  dehghtrul  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  t'  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspir'd,  745 

Can  lift  to  heav  n  an  unpresumptuous  eye. 
And  smiling  say — "  My  Father  made  them  all !" 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  int'rest  his, 
Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy,  750 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love, 
That  plannd,  and  built,  and  still  upholds  a  world 
So  clothd  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  i 
Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap  755 

The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot ;  but  ye  will  not  find 
In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 
A  liberty  like  his.  who,  unimpeach'd 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong,  760 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work. 
And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 
He  is  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  by  birth 
Of  no  mean  city ;  plann'd  or  ere  the  hills 

*  See  Hume. 


THE  WLXTER  MORNING  WALK,       119 
Were  built,  the  fountains  open'd,  or  the  sea,  765 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 
His  freedom  is  the  same  in  ev'ry  state  ; 
And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 
So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  ev'ry  day 
Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less  :  770 

For  he  has  wings,  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 
Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine. 
No  nook  so  narrow,  but  he  spreads  them  there 
With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     Th'  oppressor  holds 
His  body  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range         775 
His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain; 
And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 
Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  He  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  would'st  taste 
His  works.     Admitted  once  to  his  embrace,  760 

Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before  : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed  ;  and  thine  heart, 
Made  pure,  shall  relish  with  divine  delight, 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone,    785 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Rummate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main.  790 

Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;  but  rest^  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise, 
But  not  its  author.     Unconcern'd  who  form'd 
The  Paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 
And  such  well  pleas'd  to  find  it,  asks  no  more.        795 
Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touch  "d  from  Heav'n, 
And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdoiii  taught 
To  read  His  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 
Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Nor  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his  800 

Much  more  who  fashion'd  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 
Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 


120  THE  TASK. 

To  earth's  acknowledgd  sov'reign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublim'd  805 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'  employ 

More  worthily  the  powers  she  own'd  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlook'd, 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms  81  0 

Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute  ; 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God, 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insects  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  Heaven,  she  often  holds       815 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference.     Inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  Heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth,  620 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy. — •'  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view  825 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man. 

And  systems,  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reached  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favour'd  as  ours  ;  transgressors  from  the  womb 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doom'd  to  rise,  830 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  Heaven  than  yours  .'' 

As  one,  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleachd  and  batter'd  rocks, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye         835 

Radiant  with  joy  toward  the  happy  land; 

So  I  v/ith  animated  hopes  behold. 

Ana  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordain'd  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home  840 


THE  WINTER  MORNLNG  WALK        121 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infus'd  from  Heaven,  must  thither  tend." 

So  reads  he  Nature,  whom  the  lamp  of  truth       845 
Illunnnates.     Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word  ! 
Which  whoso  sees,  no  longer  wanders  lost, 
With  intellects  bemaz'd  in  endless  doubt, 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.     Thou  hast  built 
With  means  that  were  not,  till  by  thee  employ'd,    850 
Worlds  that  had  never  been,  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  pow'r 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report.  855 

In  vain  thy  creatures  testify  of  thee, 
Till  thou  proclaim  thyself     Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice  ;  but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine, 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 
And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use.  860 

Till  thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  hell : 
Yet  deem'd  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 
The  uninformd  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 
We  give  to  chance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 
The  glory  of  thy  vroik  ;  which  yet  appears  866 

Perfect  and  uiximjjeachabb  of  blame, 
Cliallenging  human  scrutiny,  and  prov'd 
Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judg'd. 
But  chance  is  not ;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign'st :  870 
Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  pow'r 
(If  pow'r  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 
To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  thy  laws. 
Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  we  can 
Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves  875 

Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome  ;  god?  that  sleep, 
Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 
Amusd  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 

Vor,.  IT.  n 


122  THE  TASK. 

Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 

Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure,  880 

Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  that  cause, 

For  which  we  shunn'd  and  hated  thee  before. 

Then  we  are  free.     Then  liberty,  like  day, 

Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  heav'n 

Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy.  885 

A  voice  is  heard  that  mortal  ears  hear  not, 

Till  thou  hast  touch'd  them  ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song, 

A  loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  works  ; 

Which  he  that  hears  it,  with  a  shout  repeats, 

And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise  !  890 

In  that  blest  moment,  Nature,  throwing  wide 

Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 

The  author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retir'd 

Behind  his  own  creation,  works  unseen 

By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  powr  denied :  895 

Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 

Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word  ! 

From  thee  departing,  they  are  lost,  and  rove 

At  random,  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 

From  thee  is  all  that  sooths  the  life  of  man,  900 

His  high  endeavour,  and  his  glad  success, 

His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 

But  O  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 

Thou  art  of  all  thy  gifts  thyself  k,he  crown  ! 

Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we   ire  poor  ;  905 

And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away. 


THE  TASK< 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SIXTH  BOOK 

Bells  at  a  distance — Their  effect — A  fine  noon  in  winter — A  shel- 
tered walk — Meditation  better  than  books — Our  familiarity  with 
the  course  of  Nature  makes  it  appear  less  wonderful  than 'it  is — 
The  transformation  that  spring  effects  in  a  shrubbery,  described 
— A  mistake  concerning  the  course  of  Nature  corrected — God 
maintains  it  by  an  unremitted  act — The  amusements  fashionabla 
at  this  hour  of  the  day  reproved — Animals  happy,  a  delight- 
ful sight — Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals — That  it  is  a  great 
crime  proved  from  Scripture — That  proof  illustrated  by  a  tale— » 
A  liae  drawn  between  the  lawful  and  unlawful  destruction  of 
them — Their  good  and  useful  properties  insisted  on — Apology 
for  the  encom.iums  bestowed  by  the  author  on  animals — Instances 
of  man's  extravagant  praise  of  man — The  groans  of  the  crea- 
tion shall  have  an  end— A  view  taken  of  the  restoration  of  all 
thiiigs — An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  Him  who  shall  bri«»g 
it  ,Uj  pass — The  retired  man  vindicated  from  the  charge  of  us«- 
lessuess — Conclusion. 


THERE  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds, 

And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd,  the  ear  is  pieas'd 

W^ith  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk,  or  grave; 

Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 

Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  rephes,  5 

How  soft  the  musick  of  those  village  bells, 

Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 

In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 

Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 

Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on  !  10 


124  THE  TASK. 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 

Where  Mem'ry  slept.     Wherever  I  have  heard 

A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 

And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  paina. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes,  15 

That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 

(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 

Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 

It  seem'd  not  always  short ;  the  rugged  path,  20 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 

Mov'd  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheart'ning  length. 

Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 

Faintly  impress  the  mind  or  not  at  all, 

How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revok'd,  25 

That  we  might  try  the  gromid  again,  where  once 

(Through  inexperience  as  we'now  perceive) 

We  miss'd  that  happiness  we  might  have  found  ! 

Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend! 

A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show  30 

When  most  severe,  and  must'ring  all  its  force, 

Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love  ; 

Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  low'r, 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 

But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown,  35 

Threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 

We  lov'd,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 

That  rear'd  us.     At  a  thoughtless  age,  allur'd 

By  ev'ry  gilded  folly,  we  renuunc'd 

His  shelt'ring  side,  and  wilfu'.ly  forewent  40 

That  converse  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 

How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 

The  boy's  neglected  sire  !  a  mother  too, 

That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still, 

Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death.  4*5 

Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdu'd  and  tam'd 

The  playful  humour  :  he  could  now  endure, 

(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears.) 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        125 

And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 

But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth,  50 

Till  time  has  stoln  away  the  slighted  good, 

Is  caase  of  half  the  povery  we  feel, 

And  makes  the  World  the  wilderness  it  is. 

The  few  that  pray  at  all.  pray  oft  amiss, 

And,  seekmg  grace  t'  improve  the  prize  they  hold,  55 

Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood  ; 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast,  GO 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  coanes  o'er  the  vale  ;  65 

Aiid  through  the  trees  I  view  th'  embattled  tow'r, 
Whence  all  the  musick.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms,  70 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  v;ell  suffic'd, 
And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me.  75 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought 
The  red-breast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppress'd: 
Pleas'd  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes      60 
From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 
That  tinkle  in  the  withered  h.-aves  below. 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  .sounds  bo  soft, 
Charms  more  than  silence      Meditation  ht»re 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.  Here  the  heart  85 
May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 
11* 


126  THE  TASK. 

And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  ofttimes  no  connexion.     Knowledge  dwells 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men ;  90 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 

Till  smooth'd,  and  squar'd,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich.  95 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn'd  so  much  ; 

Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 

By  which  the  magick  art  of  shrewder  wits 

Hold  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall'd.  100 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name, 

Surrender  judgment  hood-wink'd.     Some  the  style 

Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 

Of  errour  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranc'd. 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear  105 

The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 

And  swallowing,  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice 

The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  tree  and  rivulets,  whose  rapid  course 

Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer,  110 

And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 

And  lanes,  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 

Peeps  through  the  moss,  that  clothes  the  hawthorn 

root, 
Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  truth, 
Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won  115 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 
The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselv  - ;. 

Wliat  prodigies  can  pow'r  divine  perform 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year, 
And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man .'  120 

Familiar  with  th'  eflfect,  we  slight  the  cause, 
And  in  the  constancy  of  Nature's  course, 
The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        127 
And  renovation  of  a  faded  world, 
See  nought  to  wonder  at.     Should  God  again,        135 
As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  th'  undeviating  and  punctual  sim, 
How  would  the  world  admire  1  But  speaks  it  less 
An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 
His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise^  130 

Age  after  ege,  than  to  arrest  his  course  ? 
All  we  behold  is  miracle  ;  but  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 
Where  now  the  vital  energy,  that  mov'd 
While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph       135 
Throngh  th'  imperceptible  meand'ring  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flnw'r  ?  It  sleeps  ;  and  th'  icy  touch 
Of  unproliSck  winter  has  impress'd 
A  cold  stagnation  on  th"  intestine  tide. 
But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months,  140 
And  all  shall  be  restor'd.     These  naked  shoots, 
Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 
Makes  wintry  musick,  sighing  as  it  goes, 
Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 
And.  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread,  145 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost. 
Then  each  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad, 
Shall  publish  even  to  the  distant  eye 
Its  family  and  tribe.     Laburnum,  rich 
In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa,  iv'ry  pure  150 

The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose  ;  this  red 
And  of  a  humbler  growth,  the  other"  tall, 
And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  g]oora 
Of  neighb'ring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew', 
Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf,  155 

That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave  *, 
The  iilack,  variou?  in  array,  nrsw  white, 
Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 
Wiih  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 
Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolv'd  160 

"  The  Guelder  Rose. 


128    *  THE  TASK. 

Which  hue  she  most  approv'd,  she  chose  them  all ; 
Copious  of  flowers,  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never  cloying  odours,  early  and  late  ; 
Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm  165 

Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  appears  ;  mezereon,  too, 
Thouf^h  leafless,  well-attir'd  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray ; 
Althsea  with  the  purple  eye  ;  the  broom  170 

Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloy'd, 
Her  blossoms  ;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets, 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnished  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more  175 

The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatterd  stars. — 
These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day ; 
And  ail  this  uniform  uncolour'd  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 
And  flush  into  variety  again.  180 

From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life, 
Is  Nature's  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavnly  truth  ;  evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  their  lives  and  works 
A  soul  in  all  things,  and  that  sou!  is  God.  185 

The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his, 
That  makes  so  gay  the  solitary  place, 
Where  no  eye  sees  them.     And  the  fairer  forms, 
That  cultivation  glories  in,  are  his. 
He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way,  190 

And  marshriis  all  the  order  of  the  year  ; 
He  marks  the  bounds,  which  winter  may  not  pass, 
And  blunts  his  pointed  fury  ;  in  Its  case, 
Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ, 
Uninjurd,  with  inimitable  art  ;  195 

And.  ere  one  flow'ry  season  fades  and  dies, 
Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 
Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  tilings, 


HE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        129 

When  ail  creation  started  into  birth, 

The  infant  elements  receiv  d  a  law  200 

From  which  they  swerv'd  not  since.  That  under  force 

Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move, 

And  need  not  His  immediate  hand  who  first 

Prescrib'd  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 

Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  God  205 

Th'  encumbrance  of  his  own  concerns,  and  spare 

The  great  artificer  of  all  that  moves 

The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  pain 

Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care, 

As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task.  210 

So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems, 

To  span  omnipotence,  and  measure  might 

That  knows  no  measure,  by  the  scanty  rule 

And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to-day, 

And  is  not  ere  to-morrow's  sun  go  down.  215 

But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 

Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 

So  vast  in  its  demands,  unless  impell'd 

To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force, 

And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause  ?         220 

The  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  diffus'd, 

Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives. 

Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect. 

Whose  cause  is  God.     He  feeds  the  secret  fire, 

By  v/hich  the  mighty  process  is  maintain'd,  225 

Who  sleeps  not,  is  not  weary  ;  in  whose  sight 

Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days ; 

Whose  work  is  without  labour  ;  whose  designs 

No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts  ; 

And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts.  230 

Him  blind  antiquity  profan'd,  not  serv'd, 

With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 

Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 

And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus  ;  peopling  earth 

With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods,  S35 

That  were  not ;  and  commending  as  they  would 


130  THE  TASK. 

To  each  some  provkice,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 

But  all  are  under  one.     One  spirit — His 

Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows — 

Rules  universal  nature.    Not  a  flower  240 

But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 

Of  his  unrivall'd  pencil.     He  inspires 

Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues, 

And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 

In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands,  245 

The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 

Happy  who  walks  with  him  !  whom  what  he  finds 

Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower, 

Of  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 

In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestick  oak  250 

To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun. 

Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God 

His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceiv'd, 

Makes  all  still  fairer      As  with  him  no  scene 

Is  dreary,  so  with  him  all  seasons  please.  255 

Though  winter  had  been  none,  had  man  been  true 

And  earth  be  punish'd  for  its  tenant's  sake, 

Yet  not  in  vengeance  ;  as  this  smiling  sky, 

So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night, 

And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream  260 

Recov'ring  fast  its  liquid  musick,  prove. 

Who,  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and  tun  d 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  fav'rite  task. 
Would  waste  attention  at  the  checker "d  board.         265 
His  host  of  wooden  warriours  to  and  fro 
Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an  eye 
As  fix'd  as  marble,  with  a  forehead  ridg'd 
And  furrow'd  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung  270 

In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a  pin  ? 
Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport, 
Who  pant  with  application  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and,  pushing  iv'ry  balls 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.      131 

Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy  275 

Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 

Its  destind  goal,  of  difficult  access. 

Nor  deems  he  wiser  him,  who  gives  his  noon 

To  miss,  the  mercer's  plague  from  shop  to  shop 

Wand'ring,  and  litt'ring  with  unfolded  silks  280 

The  polish'd  counter,  and  approving  none, 

Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again. 

Nor  him,  who  by  his  vanity  seduc'd, 

And  sooth"d  into  a  dream,  that  he  discerns 

The  diff  rence  of  a  Guido  from  a  daub,  285 

Frequents  the  crowded  auction  :  station 'd  there 

As  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 

With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 

And  tongue  accomplish'd  in  the  fulsome  cant 

And  pedantry  that  coxcombs  learn  wnth  ease  ••         290 

Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls. 

He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box. 

Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate, 

That  he  has  let  it  pass — but  never  bids  ! 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign  295 

The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander.     Neither  mist, 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 
E'en  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad  300 

With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train. 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead. 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook — 
These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  tim'rous  hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest,  306 

Scarce  shuns  lue  ,  and  the  stock-dove,  iinalarm'd. 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pinetree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love  ditty  for  my  near  approach. 
Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm,  310 

That  age  or  injury  has  hollow'd  deep, 
Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves. 


132  THE  TASK. 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth, 

To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play  ',  315 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighb'ring  beech  ;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feign'd  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce.  320 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleas'd 
V/ith  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life,  325 

Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee  ; 
The  horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet,  330 

That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 
Then  stops,  and  snorts,  and,  throwing  high  his  heels, 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 
The  very  kine  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 
The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one,  335 

That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay, 
Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 
Their  eflforts,  yet  resolv'd,  with  one  consent. 
To  give  such  act  and  utt'rance  as  they  may 
To  ecstasy  too  big  to  be  suppress'd —  340 

These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss, 
With  which  kind  Nature  graces  ev'ry  scene. 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 
Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleas'd,  345 

A  far  superioiir  happiness  to  theirs. 
The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 

Man  scarce  had  ris'n,  obedient  to  his  call 
Who  foriri'd  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave. 
When  ho  was  crown'd  as  never  king  was  since.      350 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.      133 

God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 
And  angel  choirs  attended.     Wond'ring  stood 
The  new-made  monarchy  while  before  him  pass'd, 
All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind. 
The  creatures,  summon 'd  from  their  various  haunts, 
To  see  their  sovereign,  and  confess  his  sway.  356 

Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  liis  pow'r, 
Or  boanded  only  by  a  law,  whose  force 
'Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 
And  own— the  law  of  universal  love.  3G0 

He  ruld  with  meekness,  they  obey'd  with  joy  ; 
No  cruel  purpose  lurk'd  within  his  heart, 
And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 
So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport, 
Where  kindness  on  his  part  who  ruld  the  whole,    365 
Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all, 
And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 
But  sin  marr'd  all ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 
That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet, 
Was  punish'd  with  revolt  of  his  from  him.  370 

Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 
Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness"d  !  Ev'ry  heart, 
Each  animal,  of  ev"ry  name,  conceiv"d 
A  jealousy  and  an  instinctive  fear, 
And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled  375 

Precipitate  the  loath'd  abode  of  man. 
Or  growVd  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 
As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  liis  turn. 
.  Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 
Were  driv'n  from  Paradise  ;  and  in  that  hour  380 

The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  swell'd 
To  such  gigantick  and  enormous  growth, 
Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  soil. 
Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain, 
That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferiour  kinds,  385 

Regardless  of  their  plaints.     To  make  him  sport, 
To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath, 
Or  his  base  glut  ton  v,  are  causes  good 
Vor.  TI.  '       11 


134  THE  TASK. 

And  just  in  hi^  account,  why  bird  and  beast 

Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  died         390 

With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impal'd. 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 

Wag'd  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 

Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 

Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs  395 

Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 

Now  happiest  they  that  occupy  the  scenes 

The  most  remote  from  his  abhorrd  resort, 

Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth. 

They  fear  d,  and  as  his  perfect  image,  lov'd.  400 

The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 

Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains, 

Unvisited  by  man.     There  tliey  are  free, 

And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncontroll'd ; 

Nor  ask  his  lea\e  to  slumber  or  to  play.  405 

Wo  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 

W^ithin  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain : 

The  lion  tells  him — I  am  monarch  here — 

And  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 

Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  gen'rous  scorn  410 

To  rend  a  victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 

In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 

Or  by  necessity  constrained,  they  live 

Dependent  upon  man  ;  those  in  his  fields, 

These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof.  415 

They  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a  rate 

He  sells  protection — Witness  at  his  foot 

The  spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault 

Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge  ; 

Witness  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells          420 

Driv'n  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs. 

To  madness  ;  while  the  savage  at  his  heels 

Laughs  at  the  frantick  suffrer's  fury,  spent 

Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o'erthrown. 

He  too  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train  425 

That  wait  on  man.  the  flight -performing  liorsc  ; 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       135 

With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 

His  murd'rer  on  his  back,  and,  push'd  all  day 

With  bleeding  sides  and  flanks  that  heave  for  life, 

To  the  far  distant  goal  arrives  and  dies.  430 

So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much  ! 

Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 

Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent  ?  None. 

He  lives  and  oer  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 

(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert,)  435 

Th'  inglorious  feat,  and  clanaorous  in  praise 

Of  the  poor  biute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 

The  honours  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own. 

But  many  a  crime,  deem'd  innocent  on  earth, 

Is  registerd  in  Heav'n  ;  and  these  no  doubt,  440 

Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annex'd. 

Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 

But  God  will  never.     When  he  charg'd  the  Jew 

T'  assist  his  foes  down-fallen  beast  to  rise  ; 

And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  seiz'd  445 

The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free  ; 

Prov'd  he  not  plainly,  that  his  meaner  works    . 

Are  yet  his  care,  and  have  an  mt'rest  all, 

All,  in  the  universal  Father's  love  ? 

On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind,  450 

The  charter  was  conferr'd  by  which  we  hold 

The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 

0"er  all  we  feed  on  pow'r  of  life  and  death. 

But  read  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well : 

Th'  oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control  455 

Can  find  no  warrant  there.     Feed  then,  and  yield, 

Thanks  for  thy  food.     Carnivorous,  through  sin, 

Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute  ? 

The  Governor  of  all.  himself  to  all 
So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear  460 

The  unfledgd  raven  and  the  lion  s  whelp 
Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuagd,  has  interpos'd, 
Not  seldom,  his  avenging  arm,  to  smite 


136  THE  TASK. 

Th'  injurious  trampler  upon  Nature's  law,  4C5 

That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 

He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart  ; 

And,  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 

The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke, 

On  which  he  rode.     Her  opportune  offence  470 

Sav'd  him,  or  the  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 

He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 

To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause  : 

And  makes  the  task  his  own.     Inspiring  dumb 

And  helpless  victims  with  a  sense  so  keen  475 

Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength 

And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge. 

That  oft  the  beast  has  seem'd  to  judge  the  man. 

An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale. 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehears'd,  480 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 

In  modern  eyes.)  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear. 

Where  England,  stretchd  towards  the  setting  sun, 
Narrow  and  long,  o'erlooks  the  western  wave, 
Dwelt  young  Misagathus  ;  a  scorner  he  485 

Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent, 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage -fierce. 
He  journey 'd  :  and  his  chance  was,  as  he  went, 
To  join  a  trav'ller,  of  far  different  note, 
Evander,  fam'd  for  piety,  for  years  490 

Deserving  honour,  but  for  wisdom  more. 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth. 
Whose  face,  too,  was  familiar  to  his  view. 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land,  495 

O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whoso  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high. 
The  charity  that  warm'd  his  heart,  was  mov'd 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.     With  a  smile 
Gentle  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace,  500 

As  fearful  of  oflending  whom  he  wish'd 
Much  to  persuade;  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        137 
Not  harldly  thunder 'd  forth,  or  rudely  pressd, 
But,  hke  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet 
"  And  dost  thou  dream,"  th"  impenetrable  man        505 
Exclaim  d,  "  that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 
And  fantasies  of  dotards,  such  as  thou, 
Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moments  fear  in  me  ? 
Mark  now  the  proof  I  giv^e  thee,  that  the  brave 
Need  no  such  aidr?  as  superstition  lends  510 

"  To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death." 
Pie  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 
Push'd  vv'ith  a  madman's  fury.     Fancy  shrinks, 
And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles  at  the  thought 
Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  design'd  his  grave.  515 

But  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 
The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational,  liis  steed 
Declind  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round, 
Or  ere  his  hoof  had  press'd  the  crumbling  verge, 
Baffled  his  rider,  savd  against  his  will.  520 

The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redressed 
By  mcdcine  well  applied,  but  without  grace 
The  hearts  insanity  admits  no  cure. 
Enragd  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reform'd 
His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought  525 

Destruction,  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroyed. 
With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  died  in  blood, 
But  still  in  vain.     The  Providence  that  meant 
A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 
Spard  yet  again  th'  ignobler  for  his  sake.  530 

And  now,  his  prowess  prov'd,  and  his  sincere 
Incurable  obduracy  evinc"d. 

His  rage  grew  cool,  and,  pleas"d  perhaps  t'  have  earn'd 
So  cheaply,  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 
With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resum'd  535 

His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 
Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 
Fix"d  motionless,  and  petrified  witn  dread. 
So  on  they  far'd.     Discourse  on  other  themes 
Ensuing  .seem'd  t'  obliterate  the  past ;  540 

12^ 


138  THE  TASK. 

And  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shown, 

(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men,) 

The  rude  companion  smil'd,  as  if  transform'd — 

But  'twas  a  transient  calm.     A  storm  was  near 

An  unsuspected  storm.     His  liour  was  come.  545 

The  impious  challenger  of  Pow'r  divine 

Was  now  to  learn,  tliat  Heav'n,  though  slow  to  wrath, 

Is  never  with  impunity  defied. 

His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood, 

Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage,  550 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controll'd, 

Rush'd  to  the  clifi:',  and,  having  reach'd  it,  stood. 

At  once  the  shock  unseated  him :  he  flew 

Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier  ;  and  immers'd 

Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not,     555 

The  death  he  had  deserv'd,  and  died  alone. 

So  God  wrought  double  justice  ;  made  the  fool 

The  victim  of  his  ov/n  tremendous  choice. 

And  taught  a  brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends,  560 

(Though  grac'd  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility,)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  ev'ning  in  the  publick  path  ;  565 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn'd, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight. 
And  charg'd  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes  570 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'  alcove, 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  iuay  die  ; 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  ofl^cncC;  they  range  the  air,  575 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  fi.:)ld  : 
There  they  are  privileg  d  ;  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wroilg'; 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        139 
Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm, 
Who.  when  she  form'd,  designd  them  an  abode.      5S0 
The  sum  is  this  :  If  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety,  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are — 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life,  585 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first. 
Who  in  his  sov'reign  wisdom  made  them  all. 
Ya,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  jvour  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  spring  time  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonour'd  and  defil'd  in  most  590 

By  buddiiig  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 
To  check  them.     But,  alas  !  none  sooner  shoots, 
If  unrestrain'd,  into  luxuriant  growth, 
Than  cruelty,  most  dev'lish  of  them  all. 
Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule  .595 

And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 
By  which  Heav'n  moves  in  pard'ning  guilty  man ; 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Sliall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn.  600 

DistinguLshd  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures,  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Which  having  servd  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable  ;  and  God  some  future  day  605 

Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  th'  abuse 
Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  nor  trivial  trust. 
Superiour  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  tiieirs. 
Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  giv'n   610 
In  old  of  our  defects.     In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts. 
That  man  s  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Match'd  with  ih'  expertness  of  the  brutes  in  theirs, 
Are  oftti;uoi  vanquish'd  and  throvvn  far  behind.       615 
Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell, 


.140  THE  TASK. 

And  read  uitli  such  discernment,  in  the  port 
And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim^ 
That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  skill 
We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn.       6^0 
But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 
To  quadruped  instructers  many  a  good 
And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 
Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves. 
Attachment  never  to  be  wean'd,  or  chang'd  625 

By  any  change  of  fortune  :  proof  alike 
Against  unkindncss.  absence,  and  neglect; 
Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 
Can  move  or  warp ;  and  gratitude  for  small 
And  trivial  favours,  lasting  as  the  life,  630 

And  glisfning  even  in  the  dying  eye. 
Man  praises  man.     Desert  in  arts  or  arm.s 
Wins  publick  honour  ;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song, 
Commemoration  mad  ;  content  to  hear  635 

<0  wonderful  effect  of  musick's  power  !) 
IMcssiah's  eulogy  for  Handcrs  sake  1 
But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve — • 
(For.  was  it  less,  what  heathen  would  liave  dar'd 
To  strip  Joves  statue  of  liis  oaken  wreath,  640 

And  hang  it  up  in  honour  of  a  man  .') 
Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear, 
And  give  the  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 
Remember  Handel  ?     Who,  that  was  not  born         C45 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets, 
Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age  ? 
Yes — we  remember  him  ;  and  while  we  praise 
A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too 

That  His  most  holy  book  from  vrliora  it  came,         650 
Was  never  meant,  was  never  us'd  before, 
To  buckram  out  the  mem'ry  of  a  man. 
But  hush  ! — the  Muse  perhaps  is  too  severe 
And  with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        141 

And  measure  of  tli'  offence,  rebukes  a  deed  655 

Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing     ore 

To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design 

So  in  the  cliapel  of  old  Ely  House, 

When  wandring  Charles,  who  meant  to  be  the  third, 

Had  fled  from  William,  and  the  news  was  fresh,      660 

The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce. 

And  eke  did  roar  right  merrily,  two  staves, 

Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George ! 

— Man  praises  man :  and  Garricks  mem'ry  next. 

When  tmie  hath  somewhat  mellow'd  it,  and  made  665 

The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  liv"d 

The  God  of  our  idolatry  once  more. 

Shall  have  its  altar  ;  and  the  world  shall  go 

In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre  too  small,  shall  suffocate  670 

Its  squeez'd  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Ungratified  ;  for  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  King  Richard's  bunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inky  cloak,  675 

And  strut,  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp,  and  stare, 

To  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act. 

For  Garrick  was  a  worshipper  himself; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  fram'd  the  rites 

And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day,  680 

And  call'd  the  world  to  Vv^orship  on  the  banks 

Of  Avon,  famd  in  song.     Ah,  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 

Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulb'rry  tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths; 

The  mulbriy  tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance  ;  68G 

The  mulb'rry  tree  was  hymn'd  with  dulcet  airs; 

And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulb'rry  tree 

Supplied  such  relicks  as  devotion  holds 

Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care.  690 

So  'twas  a  hallow'd  time  :  decorum  rcign'd, 

And  mirth  without  offence.     No  few  returned, 


142  THE  TASK. 

Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refresli'd. 

— Man  praises  man.     The  rabble  all  alive 

From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  styes,      G95 

Swarm  in  the  streets.     The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A  pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car, 

To  gaze  in  "s  eyes,  and  bless  him.     Maidens  wave 

Their  kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy :  700 

While  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 

The  gilded  equipage,  and  turning  loose 

His  steeds,  usurp  a  place  they  well  deserve. 

Why  ?  what  has  charm'd  them  .'     Hath  he  saved  the 

state  .-" 
No.     Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation  ?    No.  705 

Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full, 
That  finds  out  evry  crevice  of  the  head 
That  is  not  sound,  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 
Wrought  this  disturbance.     But  the  wane  is  near, 
And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon.  710 

Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise. 
And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 
And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 
Doom'd  to  the  dust,  or  lodg'd  already  there. 
Encomium  in  old  time  was  poet's  work ;  715 

But  poets,  having  lavishly  long  since 
Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 
The  task  now  falls  into  the  publick  hand ; 
And  I  contented  with  an  humbler  theme. 
Have  pour'd  my  stream  of  panegyrick  down  720 

The  vale  of  Nature,  where  it  creeps  and  winds 
Among  her  lovely  works  with  a  secure 
And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear. 
If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth  of  brutes. 
And  I  am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils  725 

Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 
May  stand  between  an  animal  and  wo, 
And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 
The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  nether  world. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOOiV.       143 

Which  heav'n  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end        730 

Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 

Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets'  lamp  ; 

The  time  of  rest,  the  promis'd  sabbath,  comes 

Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well  nig 

Fulfilld  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course  735 

Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 

Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things 

Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 

Before  a  calm  that  rocks  itself  to  rest ; 

For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds    740 

The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march, 

When  sin  hath  movd  him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, 

Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy ;  shall  descend 

Propitious  in  his  chariot  pav'd  with  love  ; 

And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defac'd  745 

For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong 'd  by  a  mere  mortal  touch  ; 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  musick,  and  not  suffer  loss.  750 

But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetick  flow'rs, 
ThougJi  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels,  755 

To  give  it  praise  proportion'd  to  its  worth, 
Th^-'  not  t'  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

O  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplish'd  bliss  1  which  who  can  see,  760 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refresh'd  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproac' 
Of  barrenness  is  past.     The  fruitful  field  765 

Laughe  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean, 


144  THE  TASK. 

Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 

Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repeal'd. 

The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 

And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring,  770 

The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 

For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 

The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 

Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  ;  all  bask  at  noon 

Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade  ?75 

Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream  j 

Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 

Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  ;  the  mother  sees, 

And  smiles  to  see,  her  infants  playful  hand 

Stretch'd  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm,        780 

To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 

The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 

All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 

One  Lord,  one  Father.     Errour  has  no  place  ; 

That  creeping  pestilence  in  driv'n  away  ;  785 

The  breath  of  Heav'n  has  clias'd  it.     In  the  heart 

No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 

But  all  is  harmony  and  love.      Disease 

Is  not :  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 

Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age.       790 

One  song  employs  all  nations  ;  and  all  cry, 

'•  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us  !" 

The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 

Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain  tops 

From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy,  795 

Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain. 

Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 

Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fill'd  ; 

See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God  ! 

Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines  ;  800 

All  kirigdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 

Flock  to  that  light ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 

Flows  into  her  ;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       145 

And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there 

Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  f  805 

The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 

And  Sabas  spicy  groves  pay  tribute  there. 

Praise  is  in  all  her  gates ;  upon  her  walls, 

And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 

Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there  810 

Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 

And  Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  band, 

And  worships.     Her  report  has  travell'd  forth 

Into  all  lands.     From  ev"ry  clinie  they  come 

To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy,  815 

O  Sion  I  an  assembly  such  as  Earth 

Saw  never,  such  as  Heav'n  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heav'nward  all  things  tend.  For  all  were  once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restor'd. 
So  God  has  greatly  purposed  ;  who  would  else         820 
In  his  dishonour'd  works  himself  endure 
Dishonour,  and  be  wrong'd  without  redress. 
Haste,  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shattered  world, 
Yc  slow-revolving  seasons  !  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet)  825 

A  world,  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime  ;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is,  that  God  pronounces  good  ; 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  him. 
Here  ev'ry  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  :  830 

Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  fiow'rs 
And  e'en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  Heav'n,  pure  as  the  fountain  is. 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure.  835 

O  for  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  !  over  which 

*  Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  the  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  progenitors 
of  the  Arabs  in  the  propheliok  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  may 
be  reasonably  considered  as  representatives  of  the  Gentiles  al 
large. 

VoT,.  n.  13 


I 

146  THE  TASK.  ' 

Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 

That  govern  all  things  here,  should  Ting  aside 

The  raeek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her         840 

To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  Strife 

In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  Vv'ays  of  men ; 

Where  Violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 

Nor  Cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong, 

Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears :  845 

Where  he  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 

Th'  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 

More  than  the  perquisite  :  where  Law  shall  speak 

Seldom,  and  never  but  as  Wisdom  prompts 

And  Equity  ;  not  jealous  more  to  guard  850 

A  worthless  form  than  to  decide  aright  ; 

Where  Fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 

Nor  smooth  Good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 

With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  Love  ! 

Come,  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns,       855 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth. 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy  !  It  was  thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  Nature's  birth  ; 
And  thou  hast  made  it  thine  by  purchase  since  ; 
And  oerpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood.  860 

Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen 
Dipp'd  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king  ;  and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see     865 
The  dav/n  of  thy  last  advent,  long  desir'd, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hilis, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  woild  is  tir'd 
Of  its  own  taunting  question,  ask'd  so  long,  870 

"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  ?" 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away, 
Till  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none. 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts,  that  have  recoil'd, 
And  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  Truth  again.  875 


THE  WINTER  "WALK  AT  NOON.        147 

The  veil  is  rent,  rent  too  by  priestly  hands, 

That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes ; 

And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  propos'd, 

Insulted  and  tradued  are  cast  aside, 

As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  hats.  880 

They  now  are  deemd  the  faithful,  and  are  prais'd, 

Who,  constant  only  in  rejecting  Thee. 

Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr  s  zeal, 

And  quit  their  office  for  their  errour's  sake. 

Blind  and  in  love  with  darkness  !  yet  e'en  these      6S5 

Worthy,  compar  d  with  sycophants,  who  knee 

Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  thee  man ; 

So  fares  thy  church.     But  how  thy  church  may  fare 

The  world  takes  little  thought.  Who  will  may  preach, 

And  what  they  will.     All  pastors  are  alike  890 

To  wandring  sheep,  resolv'd  to  follow  none. 

Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain ; 

For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 

And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war  894 

With  Conscience  and  with  Thee.  Lust  in  their  hearts, 

And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth 

To  prey  upon  each  other  ;  stubborn,  fierce, 

High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 

Thy  prophets  speak  of  such  :  and  noting  down 

The  features  of  ihe  last  degen'rate  times,  900 

Exhibit  eVery  lineament  of  these. 

Come,  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 

Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 

Due  to  thy  last  and  most  eifectual  work, 

Thy  word  fulfilld,  the  conquest  of  a  world  !  905 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  o'en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come  ; 
Who,  doom'd  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state. 
Is  pleas"d  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose. 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace,  the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faitli,  OH 

Prepare  for  happiness  ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  cojourn  while  he  must 


146  THE  TASK. 

Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 

The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  bus^v  search  915 

Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view ; 

And  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 

Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  World. 

She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 

He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  prov'd  them  vain.       920^ 

He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 

Pursuing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 

Her  honours,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 

Whose  pow'r  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 

She  makes  familiar  with  a  Heav'n  unseen,  926 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveal'd. 

^^ot  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed, 

And  censur'd  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 

Oft  water  f;urest  meadows,  and  the  bird  930 

That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  rais'd, 

Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 

He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer — None. 

His  warfare  is  within.     There,  unfatigu'd,  935 

His  fervent  spirit  labours.     There  he  fights 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself. 

And  never-with'ring  wreaths,  compar'd  with  which, 

The  laurels  that  a  Ceesar  reaps  are  weeds. 

Perhaps  the  self-approving,  haughty  world,  940 

That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks 

Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or  if  slie  see, 

Deems  him  a  cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 

Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owes       945 

Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 

And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  pray'r  he  makes, 

When,  Isaac  like,  the  solitary  saint 

Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  think  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herself  950 

Forgive  him,  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.        149 

Of  little  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best, 
If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good, 
He  seeks  his  proper  happiness  by  means 
That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thine.  955 

Nor,  thoucrh  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 
Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease. 
Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 
Receiving  benefits,  and  rendring  none. 
His  sphere,  though  huinble,  if  that  humble  sphere 
Shine  with  his  fair  example  ;  and  though  small       9GI 
His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 
In  soothing  sorrow,  and  in  quenching  strife, 
In  aiding  helpless  indigence  in  works 
From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive  965 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  v/orld  of  wo  ; 
Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 
He  serves  his  country,  reco-mpenses  well 
The  state  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vino 
He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life  970 

Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted,  place. 
The  man,  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen. 
Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  publick  praise  ; 
Rut  he  may  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can, 
That  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill,  975 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 
Polite  Refinement  offers  him  in  vain 
Her  golden  tubr,  through  wiiicli  a  sensual  World 
Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well. 
The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  the  offence.  980 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode, 
Because  that  World  adopts  it.     If  it  bear 
The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  serse, 
And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth 
He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake  985 

Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 
She  judges  «f  refinement  by  the  eye  ; 
Hs,  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 
r*,?t  soon  deceivd  ;  av^are,  that  what  is  bas<j 
33* 


150  THE  TASK. 

No  polish  can  make  sterling  ;  and  that  vice,  990 

Though  well  pcrfuia'd  and  elegantly  dress'd, 

Like  an  unburied  carcass  trick'd  with  flow'rs, 

Ib  but  a  garnish'd  nuisance,  fitter  far 

For  cleanly  riddance  than  for  fair  attire. 

fro  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away,  905 

More  golden  than  tliat  age  of  fibled  gold 

Renown'd  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vex'd  with  care 

Or  stain'd  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approvVi 

Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away  !  and.  so  at  last,  lOOO 

Ivly  sliare  of  duties  decently  iuKill'd, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 

Its  dcstin'd  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat, 

Beneath  tlie  turf  that  I  have  often  trod.  1005 

It  shall  not  grieve  me  then,  that  once,  when  call'd 

To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flow'rs  of  verse, 

I  play'd  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair, 

With  that  hght  Task  ;  but  soon,  to  p!ease  her  more, 

Whom  flowers  alone  I  knew  would  little  please,    1810 

Let  fall  th'  unfinished  wreatli,  and  rova  for  fruit ; 

Rovd  far,  and  gathcr'd  much  ;  some  harsh,  'tis  true, 

Pick'd  from  the  thorns  and  briars  of  reproof. 

But  wholesome,  well  digested  ;  grateful  some 

To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth  ;  1015 

Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despis'd. 

But  all  is  in  His  hand  whose  praise  I  seek. 

In  vain  the  poet  sings,  and  the  World  hears. 

If  he  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 

'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime  1020 

And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre. 

To  charm  His  oar  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart, 

Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain. 

Whose  approbation — prosper  even  mine. 


r  i.-.i  > 

AN 

EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESa 


DEAR  JOSEPH— five  and  twenty  years  ago— 
Alas,  how  time  escapes  !  'tis  even  so — 
With  frequent  intercourse,  ahd  always  sweet, 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says, 
('Tv/as  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days,) 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  wiiat  to-inorrow  brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  1 
True.     Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part 
Bat  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart ; 
And,  where  1  call'd  to  prove  th'  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  to  you. 

Whence  conies  it,  then,  that  in  the  vane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife. 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won, 
Though  numerous  once,  reduc'd  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the  touch  ^ 
No  ;  gold  they  seem'd,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlour  door  upon  its  hinge. 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overaw'd 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 
Go,  fellow, — whither  ? — turning  short  about — 
Nay — Stny  at  home — you're  always  going  out. 
'Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  tlie  streets  end. — 
For  what .'' — An  please  you.  sir,  to  see  a  friend. — 
A  friend  !  Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to  start — 
Yea,  marrv  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  niv  heaxt — • 


K 


352      EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ. 
And  fetch  my  cloak  ;  for,  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  I  ever  saw. 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a  child  ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinchd  him  close, 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betray 'd, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made 
Perhaps  "twas  mere  good  humour  gave  it  birth. 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind, 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain. 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun,) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time,  an  empror,  a  v/ise  inan, 
No  matter  where,  in  China  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whosoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend. 
Convicted  once,  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt. 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out 

O  happy  Britain  !  v.^e  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here  ; 
Else;  could  a  law  like  that  which  I  relate. 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state. 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold  ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  w'iid  should  blow 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close  button'd  to  the  cliin. 
Broadcloth  without,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 


TIROCINroM : 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


KeipaXatov  6r}  TtaiSeia;  op^rj  rpotpr) PLATO. 

Apxv  Tro\iTeias  airaaris  veuv  rpo^a DI06.  LA£RT. 


TO  THE 

REV.  WILLIAM  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN 

RECTOR  OF  STOCK  IN  ESSEX, 

THE  TUTOR  OF  HIS  TWO  SONS, 

THE  FOLLOWING 

RECOMMENDING  PRIVATE   TUITION,  IN  PREFERENCE 

TO  AN  EDUCATION  AT  SCHOOL, 

IS    INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  AFFECTIONATE  FRIEND, 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


Olney,  Nov.  6, 1784. 


TIROCINIUM. 


IT  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  join'd  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That  man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 
That  form,  indeed,  th'  associate  of  a  mind  5 

Vast  in  its  pow'rs,  ethereal  in  its  kind 
That  form,  the  labour  of  almighty  skill, 
Fram'd  for  the  service  of  a  freeborn  will, 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  soul.  10 

Here  is  the  state,  the  splendour,  and  the  throne, 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 
For  her  the  Mem"ry  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  pcur'd  down  from  ev'ry  distant  age ; 
For  her  amasses  an  unbounded  store,  15 

The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more  ; 
Though  laden,  not  encumberd  with  her  spoil  j 
Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil ; 
When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarg'd, 
Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  be  surcharg'd.  20 

For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfin'd, 
The  present  muse  of  ev'ry  pensive  mind, 
Works  magick  wonders,  adds  a  brighter  hue 
To  Nature's  scenes  than  Nature  ever  knew. 
At  her  command  winds  rise,  and  waters  roar,  25 

Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore  ; 


156  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

With  flow'r  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 

Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 

For  her  the  Judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife, 

That  Grace  and  Nature  have  to  wage  through  hfe,  30 

Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill, 

Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  will, 

Condemns,  approves,  and  with  a  faithful  voice 

Guides  tho  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice. 

"Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth      .  35 

To  yon  fair  Sun,  and  his  attendant  Earth  ? 
And  when,  descending,  he  resigns  the  skies, 
Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise, 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves, 
And  owns  her  pow'r  on  evry  shore  he  laves ?  40 

Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year. 
Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  ? 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
Rock'd  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives  45 

Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 
Till  Autumns  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Die  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hues — 
'Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Pow'r  misemployed,  munificence  misplac'd,  50 

Had  not  its  author  dignified  the  plan, 
And  crown  d  it  with  the  majesty  of  man. 
Thus  form'd,  thus  plac'd,  intelligent,  and  taught. 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker's  laws  55 

Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause. 
To  press  th'  important  question  on  his  heart, 
*'  Why  form'd  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art .'"' 
If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a  slave, 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave  ;  60 

Endu'd  with  reason  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye ; 
With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove,  with  pain, 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury  vain  ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  157 

And  if,  soon  after  having  burn'd,  by  turns,  65 

With  ev'ry  lust  with  which  frail  Nature  burns, 
His  being  end  where  death  desolves  the  bond, 
The  tomb  take  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond  ; 
Then  he  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  forth, 
Stands  self-impeach'd  the  creature  of  least  worth,     70 
And  useless  while  he  lives  and  vrhen  he  dies, 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths,  that  the  learn'd  pursue  with  eager  thought, 
A.re  not  important  always  as  dear  bought, 
Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains,         75 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophick  pains  ; 
But  truths,  on  v.'hich  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  mis'ry  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  ev'ry  path  we  tread 
With  such  a  lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read.  80 

^Tis  true,  that  if  to  trifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day, 
Then  j)erish  on  futurity's  wide  shore. 
Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 
"Were  all  that  Heav'n  requir'd  of  human  kind,  85 

And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  design'd. 
What  none  could  rev'rence  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame. 
But  reason  heard,  and  nature  well  perus'd, 
At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabus'd.  90 

If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air, 
Reflect  his  attributes  who  plac'd  them  there, 
Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  appear  design'd 
Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  the  all-seeing  Mind, 
'Tis  plain  the  creature,  whom  he  chose  t'  invest       95 
With  kingship  and  dominion  o'er  the  rest, 
Receiv'd  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  Made 
Fit  for  the  pow'r  in  which  he  stands  array 'd ; 
That  first,  or  last,  hereafter,  if  not  here. 
He  too  might  make  his  author's  wisdom  clear,        100 
Praise  him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb, 
Suffer  his  justice  in  a  v/orld  to  come. 

Ynr..  TT.  T  1 


153  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

This  oncebeliev'd,  "twere  logick  misapplied, 

To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied, 

That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth         105 

Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heavnly  truth, 

That  taught  of  God  they  may  indeed  be  wise, 

Nor,  ignorantly  wand'ring,  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A  quickness,  which  in  later  life  is  lost :  110 

Preserv"d  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Or,  guilty,  soon  relenting  into  tears. 
Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed. 
What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  read, 
Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care,  115 

To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare  ; 
And  wisely  store  the  nurs'ry  by  degrees 
With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquir'd  with  ease. 
Neatly  secur'd  from  being  soil'd  or  torn 
Beneath  a  pane  of  thin  translucent  horn,  120 

A  book,  (to  please  us  at  a  tender  age 
'Tis  calFd  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page.) 
Presents  the  pray'r  the  Saviour  deign'd  to  teach, 
Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach. 
Lisping  our  syllables,  we  scramble  next  125 

Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text ; 
And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began. 
Who  made,  who  marrd,  and  who  has  ransom'd  man. 
Points  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  them  plain, 
The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain.  130 

0  thou,  whom,  borne  on  fancy's  eager  wing 
Back  to  the  season  of  life's  happy  spring, 

1  pleas'd  remember,  and,  while  mem'ry  yet 
Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne'er  forget ; 
Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale  135 
Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail ; 

Whose  hum'rous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple  style, 
May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile  ; 
Witty,  and  well  emiiloy'd,  and  like  thy  Lord, 
Speaking  in  parables  his  slighted  word  ;  140 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  159 

I  name  thee  not,  lest  so  dcspis"d  a  name 
Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame ; 
Yet  e'en  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 
That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  gray, 
Revere  the  man.  whose  Pilgrim  marks  the  road,    145 
And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 
'Tw^ere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleasd  them  at  a  riper  age  ; 
The  man  approving  what  had  charm'd  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy  ;  150 

And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart,  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 
The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impressd 
By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast, 
The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw,        155 
Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  receiv'd  with  awe; 
And,  v^'arp'd  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies, 
That  babblers,  call'd  philosophers,  devise, 
Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 
Replete  wuth  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man  IGO 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 
Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart, 
His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof 
Rise  in  his  foreliead,    and  seem  rank  enough  ; 
Point  to  the  cure    describe  a  Saviour's  cross  165 

As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 
The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 
And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  Nature  proves, 
Oppos'd  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves  !  170 

While  self-betray'd  and  wildfully  undone, 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  wood  than  won. 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  bless  d  exchange, 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentrick  range. 
Time  was,  he  clos'd  as  he  began  the  day  175 

With  decent  duty,  not  asham'd  to  pray  : 

*"  See  2  Chron.  cli.  xxvi.  ver.  19. 


J  GO  TIROCINlUxM  :  OR; 

The  practice  was  a  bond  upon  his  heart, 

A  pledge  he  gave  for  a  consistent  part ; 

Nor  could  he  dare  presumptuously  displease 

A  pow'r  confess'd  so  lately  on  his  knees.  180 

But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales, 

The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails  ; 

Pray'r  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves  •, 

Religion  makes  thee  free  by  nature  slaves ) 

Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admir'd  185 

What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as  inspired  ; 

Till  Reason,  now  no  longer  overaw'd, 

Resumes  her  powers,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud  ; 

And,  common  sense  diffusing  real  day, 

The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away  190 

Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth 

Learn  from  expert  inquirers  after  truth  ; 

Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak, 

Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 

And  thus,  well-tutor'd  only  while  we  share  195 

A  mother's  lectures  and  a  nurse's  care  ; 

And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologick  stuff,* 

But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough  ; 

Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgrac'd, 

Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effac'd.  200 

Would  you  your  son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once  ; 
That  in  good  time  the  stripling's  finish 'd  taste 
For  loose  expense,  and  fashionable  waste, 
Should  prove  your  ruin  and  his  own  at  last ;  205 

Train  him  in  publick  with  a  mob  of  boys, 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise, 
Else  of  a  mannish  growtli,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men. 

*  The  author  be^s  leave  to  explain.  Sensible  that  without 
such  knowledg'e  neither  the  ancient  poets  nor  historians  can 
be  tasted,  or  indeed  understood,  be  does  not  mean  to  censure 
the  pains  that  are  taken  to  instruct  a  school  boy  in  the  religion 
of  the  Heathen,  but  merely  that  neglect  of  Christian  culture, 
which  leaves  him  shamefully  ignorant  of  his  own. 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  IGl 

There  shall  he  leapti,  ere  sixteen  winters  old,  210 

That  authors  are  most  useful,  pawnd  or  sold; 

That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart, 

But  taverns  teach  the  linowledge  of  the  heart; 

There  v;aiter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays, 

Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise  ;  215 

His  counsellor  and  bosom  friend  shall  prove, 

And  s<jme  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 

Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 

Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long  ; 

The  management  of  tyroes  of  eighteen  220 

Is  difHcuIt,  their  punishment  obscene. 

The  ptout  tali  captain,  whose  superiour  size 

The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes, 

Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 

Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks.  225 

His  pride,  that  scorns  t'  obey  or  to  submit, 

With  them  is  courage  ;  his  cfFront'ry,  wit. 

His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 

Robb'ry  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets,  229 

His  hairbreadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes, 

Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  fav"rite  themes. 

In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 

A  kindred  spark  :  tjiey  burn  to  do  the  like  : 

Thus  half  accomplishd  ere  he  yet  begin 

To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin  ;  235 

And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 

Made  just  th'  adept  that  you  designed  your  son  ; 

T'  ensure  the  perseverance  of  Lis  course. 

And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 

Send  him  to  college.     If  he  there  be  tam'd,  240 

Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaim  d. 

Where  no  regard  of  ord'nances  is  shown 

Or  look'd  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own, 

Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 

Where  neither  strumpets  charms  nor  drinking  bout, 

Nor  gambhng  practices,  can  find  it  out.  246 

Such  youlho  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too, 


162  TIROCINIUM  :  OR, 

Ye  nurs'ries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you  : 

Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds, 

For  publick  schools  'tis  publick  folly  feeds.  250 

The  slaves  of  custom  and  establishd  mode, 

With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 

Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells, 

True  to  the  jingling  of  our  leader's  bells. 

To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  wink  255 

With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think  ; 

And  such  an  age  as  ours  balks  no  expense, 

Except  of  caution,  and  of  common  sense  ; 

Else  sure  notorious  fact  and  proof  so  plain, 

Would  tarn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train.  260 

I  blame  not  those  who,  with  what  care  they  can, 

O'erwatch  the  num'rous  and  unruly  clan ; 

Or,  if  I  blame,  'tis  only  that  they  dare 

Promise  a  work,  of  which  they  must  despair. 

Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole,  265 

A  ubiquarian  presence  and  control — 

Elisha's  eye,  that,  when  Gehazi  stray'd. 

Went  with  hun,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  play'd .' 

Yes — ye  are  conscious  ;.  and  on  all  the  shelves 

Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves,     270 

Or  if,  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then, 

Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men  ; 

Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  address'd 

To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 

But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  cannot  cure,  275 

And  evils,  not  to  be  cndurd,  endure. 

Lest  pow'r  exerted,  but  without  success, 

Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 

Ye  once  v/ere  justly  fam'd  for  bringing  forth 

Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth  ;  280 

And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  shines 

A  glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 

Of  poets  rais'd  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divines. 

Peace  to  them  ail  1  those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 

And  no  such  lights  are  kindling-  in  their  stead,        285 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  1G3 

Our  striplings  shine  indeed,  but  with  such  rays, 
As  set  the  inidnigiit  riot  in  a  blaze  ; 
And  seem,  if  judg  d  by  their  expressive  looks, 
Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeons'  books. 

Saj',  Muse,  (for  education  made  the  song,  290 

No  muse  can  hesitate,  or  Iniger  long,) 
What  causes  move  us,  knowing  as  we  must, 
That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust, 
To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  caite  .''       295 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise. 
We  love  the  play -place  of  our  early  days  ; 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  v/hich  we  tried  our  graving  skill,         300 
The  very  name  we  carv'd  subsisting  still ; 
The  bench  on  which  v/e  sat  while  deep  employ'd, 
Tho'  mangled,  hack'd,  and  hew'd,  not  yet  destroy'd ; 
The  little  ones,  unbottond,  glowing  hot, 
Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot ;  305 

As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw ; 
To  pitch  the  ball  into  tlie  grounded  hat. 
Or  drive  it  devious  'v-ith  a  dext'rous  pat ; 
The  pleasing  spectacle  ai  once  excites  310 

Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 
That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'  obtain 
Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 
This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-knov.'n  place. 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race,  315 

Maintains  its  hold  with  suck  unfailing  sway. 
We  feel  it  e'en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 
Hark  !  how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 
Of  classick  food  begins  to  be  his  care. 
With  his  ovvn  likeness  plac'd  en  either  knee,  320 

Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee  ; 
And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 
That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box  ; 


164  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Then  turning,  he  regales  liis  list'ning  wife 

With  all  the  adventures  of  his  early  life  ;  325 

His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 

In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays; 

What  shifts  he  usd,  detected  in  a  scrape, 

How  he  was  lloggd  or  had  the  luck  t'  escape  ; 

What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold  330 

AVatch,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 

Retracing  thus  his  fi-ollcks,  ('tis  a  name 

That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame,) 

He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sv/ay  ; 

Resolves  that  v/here  he  play'd  his  sons  shall  play,  335 

And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  shown 

Just  in  the  scene  where  he  display  d  his  own. 

The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught, 

To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought ; 

The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enovigh,     340 

Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  Che  rough. 

Ah  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 

Th'  event  is  sure  ;  expect  it,  and  rejoice  I 

Soon  see  3'our  wish  fuliilld  in  either  child — 

Tiie  pert  made  pertcr,  and  the  tame  made  wild.      345 

The  great,  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 
Excus'd  th'  encumbrance  of  more  solid  worth. 
Are  best  dispos'd  of  where  v/ith  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address. 
Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense,  350 

That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 
Which,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 
But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 
Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name,        355 
Whose  heirs,  their  honours  none,  their  income  small, 
Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all. 
What  dream  they  of,  that  with  so  little  care 
They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure  there  ? 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  grac'd      360 
With  wig  prolix.  dov>'n  flowing  to  his  waist : 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  3G5 

They  see  th'  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw  : 
They  hear  him  speak — the  oracle  of  law. 
The  father,  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 
Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least ;  365 

And  Vv-hile  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  j!:irlour  broona, 
In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 
In  coach  with  purple  lin'd,  and  mitres  on  its  side. 
Events  improbable  and  strange  as  these,  370 

Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees, 
A  publick  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease. 
But  how  !  Resides  such  virtue  in  that  air, 
As  must  create  an  appetite  for  pray'r  ? 
And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal,  375 

That  candidates  for  such  a  prize  should  feel. 
To  take  the  lead  and  be  the  foremost  still 
In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  ? 
"  Ah,  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaaght 
The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought.'' 
Church-ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best  381 

By  learned  clerks,  and  Latinists  profess'd. 
Th'  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 
Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 
Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek,  385 

Is  more  than  adequate  to  ail  I  seek. 
Let  erudition  grace  hun  or  not  grace, 
I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place  ; 
His  wealth,  fame,  honours,  all  that  I  intend, 
Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend.  390 

A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects. 
Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 
His  intercourse  with  peers  and  sons  of  peers, 
There  da  was  the  splendour  of  his  future  years  : 
[n  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies  395 

Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 
Your  Lordship  and  Your  Grace  !  what  school  can  teach 
A  rhet'rick  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech  ! 
What  need  of  Homer's  verse,  or  Tully's  prose, 


166  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Sweet  interjections  !  if  he  learn  but  those  ?  400 

Let  rev'rend  churls  his  ignorance  rebuke, 

Who  star\r'd  upon  a  dog^s-ear'd  Pentateuch, 

The  parson  knows  enough,  who  knows  a  duke." 

Egregious  purpose  !  worthily  begun 

In  barb 'reus  prcstitution  of  your  son  ;  405 

Press'd  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 

A  scriv'ner  s  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place, 

And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gain'd, 

In  sacrilege,  in  God's  own  house  profan'd  ! 

It  may  succeed  ;  and,  if  his  sins  should  call  410 

For  more  than  common  punishment,  it  shall ; 

The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 

Least  qualified  in  honour,  learning,  worth. 

To  occupy  a  sacred  awful  post. 

In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most.         415 

The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course, 

A  king,  tliat  would,  might  recommend  his  horse ; 

And  deans,  no  doubt,  and  chapters  with  one  voice, 

As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 

Behold  3'our  bishop  ;  well  he  plays  his  part,  420 

Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart. 

Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 

A  slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man. 

Dumb  as  a  senator,  and  as  a  priest 

A  piece  of  mere  church  furniture  at  best ;  425 

To  live  estrang'd  from  God  his  total  scope. 

And  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 

But  fair  although  and  feasible  it  seem, 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream  : 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concern'd  t'  exempt      430 

The  hallow'd  bench  from  absolute  contempt. 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place, 

Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  a,nd  grace ; 

And  therefore  'tis  that  though  the  sight  be  rare, 

We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  there.  435 

Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 

Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound  : 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  167 

The  most  disint'rested  and  virtuous  minds, 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds, 

New  situations  give  a  difF'rent  cast  440 

Of  habit,  incUnation,  temper,  taste  ; 

And  he  that  seem'd  our  counterpart  at  first. 

Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  i-evefs"d. 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform.  445 

Boys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown, 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guess'd  than  known  ; 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 

But  learns  his  errour  in  maturcr  3'ears, 

When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurl'd,  450 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world : 

If,  therefore,  e"en  v.-hen  honest  in  design, 

A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

'Twere  wiser  sure  f  inspire  a  little  heart 

With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part,  455 

Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 

For  wages  so  ur«ikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  publick  hives  of  puerile  resort, 
That  are  of  chief  and  most  approv'd  report. 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul,  460 

Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 
A  principle,  v.'hose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestion'd,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass — 
That  with  a  world,  not  often  over  nice. 
Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice  ;  465 

Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried. 
Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride — 
Contributes  most  perhaps  t'  enhance  their  fame  ; 
And  emulation  is  its  specious  name. 
Boys,  once  on  tire  with  that  contentious  zeal,  470 

Feel  all  the  rage  that  female  rivals  feel ; 
The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman "s  eyes 
Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar's  prize. 
The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 
With  all  varieties  of  ill  Viv  turns  ]  475 


168 

Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 

Resents  his  fel]ow"s,  wishes  it  were  less, 

Exults  in  his  miscarriage  if  he  fail, 

Deems  his  reward  too  great  if  he  prevail, 

And  labours  to  surpass  hiin  day  and  night,  480 

Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 

The  spur  is  powrful,  and  I  grant  its  force  ; 

It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course. 

Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth  ; 

And,  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both  :  485 

But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes. 

The  end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 

Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 

Against  a  heart  deprav'd  and  temper  hurt ; 

Hurt,  too,  perhaps,  for  life  ;  for  early  wrong,  490 

Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long  ; 

And  you  are  stanch  indeed  in  learning's  cause, 

If  you  can  crou'n  a  discipline,  tliat  draws 

Such  mischiefs  after  it  with  much  applause. 

Connexion  form'd  for  int'rest,  and  endear'd  495 

By  selfish  views,  thus  censur'd  and  cashier'd : 
And  emulation,  as  engend'ring  hate, 
Doomd  to  a  no  less  igno^iiinious  fate  : 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall, 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all.  500 

Great  schools  rejected  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  manag'd  well, 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  .'' 
Force  not  my  drift  beyound  its  just  intent,  505 

I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government  ; 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dress'd, 
"  Whate'er  is  best  administer"d  is  best." 
Few  boys  are  born  v/ith  talents  that  excel, 
But  all  are  capable  of  living  well ;  510 

Therti  ask  not.  Whether  limited  or  large  .'* 
But,  Walch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge  ? 


A  RKVIEVV  OF  SCHOOLS.  169 

If  anxious  only,  that  their  boys  may  learn, 

While  morals  languish,  a  despis'd  concern, 

The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame,    515 

DifFYent  in  size,  but  in  eftect  tlie  same. 

Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast. 

Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most ; 

Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound. 

For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found ;        520 

Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do, 

Traps  to  catch  youth  are  more  abundant  too. 

If  shrewd,  and  of  a  well-constructed  brain, 

Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vig'rous  to  retain. 

Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill ;  525 

As,  wheresoever  taught,  so  form"d  he  will  ; 

The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air, 

Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share. 

But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 

Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay,  530 

Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name. 

Threaten  his  health,  his  fortuns,  and  his  fame  ; 

Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 

The  symptoms,  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread : 

Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone  535 

The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  v/as  all  his  own. 

O  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perus'd, 
By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abus'd  ; 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place  ;  540 

A  sight  surpass'd  by  none  that  we  can  show, 
Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below ; 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son, 
Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one  ; 
How  ! — turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot,  545 

^sop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  r" — Why  not  ? 
He  will  not  blush,  that  has  a  father's  heart, 
To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part ; 
But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy 
That  youth  takes  pleasure  in.  to  pkase  his  boy ;     550 

Vol.  n.  35 


170  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 

A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 

Tliat  God  and  Nature,  and  your  infrest  too, 

Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  ? 

Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown  555 

For  one,  whose   tend'rest   thoughts  all  hover   round 

your  own  ? 
This  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is, 
How  does  it  lac"rate  both  your  heart  and  his! 
'  '^h'  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 

Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smooth'd  away,  560 

Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come. 

With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 

But  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 

Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof, 

Harmless,  and  safe,  and  nafral,  as  they  are  565 

A  disappointment  v/aits  him  even  there  ; 

Arriv'd,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change, 

He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange  ; 

No  longer  takes,  as  once,  with  fearless  ease. 

His  fav'rite  stand  between  his  father's  knees,  570 

But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat. 

And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a  retreat ; 

And,  least  familiar  where  lie  should  be  most. 

Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost. 

Alas,  poor  boy  ! — the  natural  effect  575 

Of  love  by  absence  chill'd  into  respect. 

Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquir'd, 

Brings  he  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesir'd  ? 

Thou  well  deserv'st  an  alienated  son, 

Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge — none  ;     580 

None  that,  in  thy  domestick  snug  recess, 

He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address. 

Though  some,  perhaps,  tlmt  shock  thy  feeling  mind. 

And  better  never  learn'd,  or  left  behind. 

Add,  too,  that,  thus  estrang'd,  thou  canst  obtain      585 

Bv  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  asrain  ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  171 

That  liere  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint 
Of  filial  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint ; 
Which,  oft  neglected  in  life's  waning  years 
A  parent  pours  into  regardless  ears.  590 

Like  caterpillars  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  th'  unseemly  race  ; 
While  ev'ry  worm  industriously  weaves  595 

And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivell'd  leaves  ; 
So  num'rous  are  the  follies  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  ev'ry  sprightly  boy; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse, 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse,  600 

Th'  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command, 
To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 
Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 
'Tis  not  enough,  that  Greek  or  Pvoman  page,  605 

At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage  ; 
E'en  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend 
To  warn,  and  teacli  him  safely  to  unbend 
O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 
Watch  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide  ;  610 

And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 
A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 
T'  impress  a  value  not  to  be  eras'd, 
On  moments  squander'd  else,  and  running  all  to  waste 
And  seems  it  nothing  in  a  father's  eye,  615 

That  unimprov'd  those  many  moments  fly 
And  is  he  well  content  his  son  sliould  find 
No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind. 
But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declined  .' 
For  such  is  all  tlie  mental  food  purvey'd  620 

By  pubhck  hacknies  in  the  schooling  trade ; 
Who  feed  a  pupils  intellect  with  store 
Of  syntax,  truly,  but  with  little  more  ; 


172  TIROCINIUM :  OR, 

Dismiss  their  cares,  when  they  dismiss  their  flock, 

Machines  themselves,  and  govern'd  by  a  clock.        625 

Perhaps  a  father,  bless'd  with  any  brains. 

Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 

T'  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense, 

With  sav'ry  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense : 

To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  delight,  630 

To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophick  height, 

Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wond'ring  eyes 

Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance  and  their  size, 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  ball. 

And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all ;  635 

To  shov/  him  in  an  insect  or  a  flow'r 

Such  microscopick  proof  of  skill  and  powT, 

As,  hid  from  ages  past,  God  now  displays, 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days  ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend         640 

With  designation  of  the  fingers'  end, 

Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note. 

Thus  bringing  liome  to  him  the  most  remote  ; 

To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  gen'rous  flame, 

Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame ;      645 

And.  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view, 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 

A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge  gain'd  betimes,  and  which  appears 

Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years,  651 

Sv/eet  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport. 

When  health  demands  it,  of  athletick  sort, 

Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have  been. 

And  more  than  one,  perhaps,  that  I  have  seen--     655 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  school-boy's  lean  and  tardy  growth. 

Art  thou  a  man  professionally  tied, 
With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied. 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care,  660 

Than  how  t'  enrich  thvself.  and  next  thine  heir  : 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  373 

Or  art  thou  (as,  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art  ) 

But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  t'  impart: 

Behold  that  figure,  neat,  thougli  plainly  clad  ; 

His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad  ;  665 

Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 

Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men  ; 

No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 

His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force; 

And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease,  670 

Not  English  stitf,  but  frank,  and  form'd  to  please  ; 

Lov/  in  the  world  because  he  scorns  its  arts  ; 

A  man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts  ; 

Unpatronis'd,  and  therefore  little  known  ; 

Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone —  675 

In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 

Arm'd  for  a  work  too  difucult  for  thee  ; 

Prepar'd  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 

To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth ; 

Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove  GSO 

The  force  nf  discipline  when  back'd  by  love  ; 

To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 

His  mind  inform'd,  his  morals  undefil'd. 

Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  l)oy  shall  show 

No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below,  685 

Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses  design'd 

By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refind. 

There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liv'ried  herd, 

Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  fear'd  ; 

For  since,  (so  fashion  dictates,)  all  who  claim  690 

A  higher  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 

Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may. 

To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay, 

(And  they  that  can  afford  th'  expense  of  more, 

Some  half  a  dozen,  and  some  half  a  score,)  695 

Great  cause  occurs,  to  save  him  from  a  band 

So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand ; 

A  point  sccurd,  if  once  he  be  supply'd 

"With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 


374  TlROCINnjiM :  OR, 

Are  such  men  rare  ?  perhaps  they  would  abound,   700 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found, 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools,  that  have -outliv'd  all  just  esteem, 

Exchang'd  for  the  secine.  doraestick  scheme. —        705 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  duke  or  earl. 

Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl. 

And,  as  thou  wouldst  th'  advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care. 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just,  710 

A  man  deem'd  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 

Despis'd  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 

From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect  ? 

A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains, 

That  instant,  upon  all  his  future  pains  ;  715 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 

And  all  th'  instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 

Are  a  stream  chok'd,  or  trickling  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals  ; 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feels  •■  720 

And  that;  possessor  of  a  soul  refin"d, 

An  upright  heart  and  cultivated  mind, 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 

He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 

And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit,  785 

Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 

Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 

From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains  •, 

Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath  ; 

Nor  frown,  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth.  730 

And,  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 

To  more  than  he  is  hir'd  or  bound  to  teach  ; 

Much  trash  unutter'd,  and  some  ills  undone, 

Through  rev'rence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean,  735 

Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  175 

And  thou  a  wretch,  whom,  foil' wing  her  own  plan 
The  world  accounts  an  honourable  man, 
Because  Ibrsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tried 
And  stood  the  test,  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side ;       740 
Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 
That  any  llxing  but  vJce  could  win  thy  love  ; — 
Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  card-playing  wife, 
Chaiu'cl  t¥  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life  ^ 
Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore,  745 

Flies,  wing'd  with  ioy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door ; 
And  thrice  in  every  winter  throngs  thine  own 
With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  .n  town, 
Thyjelf  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thoumayst; 
Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste  ;  750 

Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank; 
If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank, 
And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  sobrest  mood, 
A  trifler,  vain  and  empty  of  all  good  ; 
Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none,     755 
Hear  Nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 
Sav'd  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brings  forth 
Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 
Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot^ 
Within  some  pious  pastor's  humble  cot,  760 

Where  vile  example,  (yours  I  chiefly  mean, 
The  most  seducing,  and  the  oft'nest  seen,) 
May  never  more  be  stamp'd  upon  his  breast, 
Nor  yet  perhaps  incurably  impress'd. 
Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure,  765 

Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure 
Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain ; 
Or,  if  it  enter,  soon  slarv'd  out  again  : 
Where  all  th'  attention  of  his  faithful  host. 
Discreetly  limited  to  two  at  most,  770 

May  raise  such  fruits  as  shnll  reward  his  care, 
And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air  ; 
Where,  f  illness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind 
Serene,  ivA  to  his  duties  mucli  inclin'd. 


JTG  TIROCIiNIUM :  OK, 

Kot  ocnupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home,  775 

Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 

His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 

In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. — 

But  whom  do  I  advise  ?  the  fashion  led, 

Th'  incorrigibly  wrong-,  the  deaf,  the  dead,  780 

Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 

Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute  ; 

"VVho,  if  their  sons  some=  slight  tuition  share, 

Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where ; 

Too  proud  t'  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown,  785 

And  much  too  gay  t'  have  any  of  their  own. 

But  courage,  man  !  methought  the  nuise  replied 

Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide  : 

The  osti.ch,  silliest  of  the  feather'd  kind, 

And  form'd  of  God  without  a  parent's  mind,  790 

Commits  her  eggs,  incautious,  to  the  dust, 

forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust ; 

And,  while  on  publick  nurs'ries  they  rely. 

Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why, 

Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer  795 

No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 

But  all  are  not  alike      Thy  warning  voice 

May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice ; 

And  some  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 

Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care,  800 

(Whose   hearts  will   ache,  once   told   what   ills  may 

reach 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach,) 
Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  t'  enforce 
Th'  expedience  of  a  less  advent'rous  course  ; 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel  or  condemn  ;  805 

But  they  have  human  feelings — turn  to  them. 
To  you  then,  tenants  of  life's  middle  state, 
Securely  plac'd  between  the  small  and  great, 
Whose  character,  yet  undebauch'd,  retains 
Two  thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains,  810 


1 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  177 

Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  son  should  learn 

Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I  turn. 

Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind  : 

See  what  contempt  is  falln  on  human  kind  ; 

See  w^ealth  abus'd,  and  dignities  misplac'd,  815 

Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  disgrac"d, 

Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renown"d  of  old, 

Their  noble  qualities  all  quench'd  and  cold  ; 

See  Bedlams  closeted  and  hand-caffd  charge 

Surpass"d  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large  ;  620 

See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade  ; 

Great  lawyers  lawyers  without  study  made  : 

Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 

Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy  ; 

Who,  far  enough  froni  furnishing  their  shelves        S2S 

With  gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves  ; 

See  womanhood  despisd.  and  manhood  sham'd 

With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  nam'd  ; 

Fops  at  all  corners,  lady-like  in  mien, 

Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen,  830 

Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 

On  fire  with  curses,  and  with  nonsense  hung, 

Now  flush"d  with  drunkenness,   now  with  whoredom 

pale. 
Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  night's  regale  ; 
See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts  835 

Man  well  endow  d,  of  honourable  parts, 
Designed  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools , 
All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools, 
And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will, 
That  though  school-bred  the  b*  .y  be  virtuous  still ;  840 
Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark 
Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark  : 
As  here  and  there  a  twinkling  star  descried. 
Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 
Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone  845 

Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  ©wn, 


178  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

And  stroke  his  polish'd  cheek  of  purest  red, 

And  lay  thme  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head, 

And  say,  My  boy,  th'  unwelcome  hour  is  come, 

When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home,      850 

Must  find  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air, 

And  trust  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care  ; 

What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 

From  constant  converse  with  I  know  not  whom  ; 

Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what  views, 

And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose  ;    850 

Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be, 

Is  all  chaaco-medley,  and  unknown  to  me. 

Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids, 

And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids  ;  SCO 

Free  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 

Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course  ; 

Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side 

Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a  guide  ? 

Thou  canst  not  !  Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart,      8G5 

Condenms  th'  unfatherly,  th'  imprudent  part. 

Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature's  teudrest  plea, 

Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea. 

Nor  say,  Ga  thither,  conscious  that  there  lay 

A  brood  of  asps  or  quicksands  in  his  way  ;  870 

Then,  only  govern'd  by  the  self-same  rule 

Of  nat'ral  pity,  send  hini  not  to  school. 

No — guard  him  better.     Is  he  not  thine  own. 

Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesli,  thy  bone  .' 

And  hop'st  thou  not,  ('tis  ev'ry  father's  liope,)         875 

That  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope. 

And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort  to  assuage 

Health's  last  farewell,  a  staff  in  thine  old  age, 

That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares. 

Thy  child  shall  sh&v/  respect  to  tliy  gray  hairs,       880 

Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 

And  give  Ihy  life  its  only  cordial  left ! 

Av.'are  then  how  much  danger  intervenes, 

To  compass  that  good  end  ibrecast  the  means^ 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  179 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command ;     885 
Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 
If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 
Nor  heed  what  guest  there  enter  and  abide, 
Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 
Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place  890 

But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 
From  vicious  inmates  and  delights  impure, 
Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast, 
And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last ; 
Or,  if  he  prove  unkind,  (as  vrho  can  say  895 

But,  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may  ?) 
One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart, 
Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 

O  barb"rous  1  wouldst  thou  with  a  Gothick  hand 
Pull  down  the   schools — what ! — all  th'  schools  i'  th' 
land ;  900 

Or  throw  them  up  to  liv'ry  nags  and  grooms, 
Or  turn  them  into  shops  and  auction  rooms  ? 
A  captious  question,  sir,  (and  yours  is  one,) 
Deserves  an  answer  similar  or  none. 
Wouldst  thou,  possessor  of  a  flock,  employ,  905 

(Appris'd  that  he  is  such.)  a  careless  boy, 
And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay, 
Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray  ? 
Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 
A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile.  910 

From  education,  as  tlie  leading  cause, 
The  publick  character  its  colour  draws ; 
Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 
Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 
And,  though  I  would  not  advertise  them  yet,  915 

Nor  write  on  each — This  huildins  to  be  let, 
Unless  the  world  were  all  prepar'd  t'  embrace 
A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place  ; 
Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been, 
To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals  clean,  920 

^Forgive  the  crime,)  I  wish  them,  I  confess, 
(^r  bolter  manag'd,  or  encourag'd  less- 


(ISO) 
TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON. 

AN  INVITATION  INTO  THE  COUNTRY* 


THE  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 

Compose  their  useless  wing, 
And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 
The  call  of  early  Spring. 
II. 
The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream, 

The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 
Are  neither  felt  nor  fear'd  by  them, 
Secure  of  their  repose. 
III. 
But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake, 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys  ! 
With  present  ills  his  heart  must  aclie, 
And  pant  for  brighter  days. 
IV. 
Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead, 

Bids  me  and  Mary  mourn  ; 
But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his  head, 
And  whispers  your  return. 
V. 
Then  April  with  her  sister  May, 

Shall  chase  him  from  the  bow'rs, 
And  weave  fresh  garlands  ev'ry  day. 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 
VI. 
And  if  a  tear,  that  speaks  regret, 

Of  happier  times,  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  met, 
Shall  sliine  and  drv  the  tear. 


(181) 


On  the  receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  out  of  Kot^ 
folkf  the  gift  of  my  cousin  Ann  Bodham. 


O  THAT  those  lips  had  language !  Life  has  passd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  tliine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  sec, 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
'•  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  !" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes, 
(Biess'd  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannick  claim 
To  quench  it,)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  ono  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  ray  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother  !  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss. 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes.  • 
I  heard  the  beH  toll'd  on  thy  burial  daV; 

Vol.  TI.  10 


I£2  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And  turning  from  my  nurs'ry  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was — where  thou  art  gone, 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

Thy  maidens,  griev'd  themselves  at  niy  concern. 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believ'd. 

And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceiv'd. 

By  expectation  ev'ry  day  beguil'd. 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 

I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But  though  I  less  deplor'd  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more,. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'ry  floor  j 
And  where  the  gard'ner,  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  publick  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 
In  Gcarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 
'Tis  now  become  a  hist'ry  little  known, 
That  once  wo  call'd  the  past'ral  house  our  own. 
Short -liv'd  possession  !  but  the  record  fair. 
That  mem'ry  keeps  of  all  thf  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  efFac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That  thou  mightst  know  rae  safe  and  warmly  laid  j 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home. 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum. 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd  : 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  Iovc>  that  knew  no  fall. 


MY  MOTHER  S  PICTURE.  IS'^ 

Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  brealcs 
That  humour  interpos'd  too  often  makes ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  mem'ry's  page, 
And  still  Id  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  : 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
JVot  scornd  in  Heav'n,  though  little  notic'd  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissu'd  flow'rs, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  witli  a  pm, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while- 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  ajid  smile,) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir'd,  perhaps  I  might — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Tliy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast, 
(The  storms  all  weather 'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd,) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  shov/ 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar/'^ 
And  thy  lov'd  consort  on  the  dang'rous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor 'd  by  thy  side. 
But  rae,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd 
*  Garth. 


184  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF,  &c. 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempcst-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  lost;. 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  rae  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthron'd,  and  rulers  of  the  Earth  } 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise— 
The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now  farewell — Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done, 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ;  ' 

And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimick  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  sooth  me  left. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


WHAT  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace; 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 

Will  boast  it  their  possession  ? 
Profusion  apes  the  nobler  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion. 

If  ev'iy  polish'd  gem  we  find 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation ; 
No  wonder  friendship  does  the  same, 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 

Or  rather  constellation 

No  knave  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one  ; 
Nor  any  fool,  he  would  decef\'C, 
But  proves  as  ready  to  believe, 

And  dream  that  he  had  found  one. 

Candid,  and  generous,  and  just, 
Boys  care  but  little  whom  they  trust, 

An  errour  soon  corrected — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years, 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appears, 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  ? 

But  here  again  a  danger  lies, 
Lest,  having  misapplied  our  eyes, 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 


186  1-RlENDSHIF. 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbiddden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 

We  sought  without  attaining. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test, 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest. 

Or  mean  self-love  erected : 
Nor  such  as  may  awhile  subsist, 
Between  the  sot  and  sensualist. 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 
Who  seeks  a  friend  should  come  dispos'd 
T'  exhihit  m  full  bloom  disclos'd 

The  graces  and  the  beauties, 
That  form  the  character  he  seeks. 
For  'tis  a  union  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 
Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side. 

And  constantly  supported ; 
'Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views, 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suffice .' 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price. 

And  must  be  made  the  basis  ; 
But  ev'ry  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  whole, 

All  shining  in  their  places. 

A  fretful  temper  will  divide 

The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion  ; 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 


FRIENDSHIP.  187 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 

In  hopes  of  permanent  delight — 

The  se«ret  just  coininitted, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreams, 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in  ; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed, 
May  prove  a  dangerous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distress'd 

On  good,  that  seems  approaching  ; 
And  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 

Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name 
Unless  belied  by  common  fame, 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel. 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renown'd  for  repartee, 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling  ; 
Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breast, 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Whoever  keeps  an  open  ear 
For  tattlers,  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention  j 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade, 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  dif^sension. 


188  FRIENDSHIP. 

A  friendship,  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  hand  in  hand  insurance  plates, 
Most  unavoidably  creates 

The  thought  of  conflagration. 

Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  a  needle  to  the  pole, 

Their  humour  yet  so  various, 
They  manifest  their  whole  life  through 
The  needle's  deviations  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete. 

Plebeians  must  surrender 
And  yield  so  much  to  noble  folk, 
It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 

Obscurity  with  splendour. 

Some  are  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green,) 

They  sleep  secure  from  waking  : 
And  are  indeed  a  bog  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares 

Unmov'd  and  without  quaking. 

Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politicks, 

Without  an  effervescence, 
Like  that  of  salts  with  lemon  juice, 
Which  does  not,  yet  like  that  produce 

A  friendly  coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life  ; 

But  friends  that  chance  to  differ 
On  points  which  God  has  left  at  large, 
How  freely  will  they  meet  and  charge  ! 

No  combatants  are  stiffer. 


FRIENDSHIP.  IW 

To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving — 
Seeking  a  real  friend  we  seem 
T'  adopt  the  chemist's  golden  dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our  own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  known 

By  trespass  or  omission  ; 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friends  defect  long  hid  from  sight. 

And  even  from  suspicion. 

Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove  your  maji 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can, 

And,  having  made  election, 
Beware  no  negligence  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures, 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 

That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust. 

That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just, 

That  constancy  befits  them, 
Are  observations  on  the  case, 
That  savour  much  of  common-place, 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 

But  "tis  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone, 
An  architect  requires  alone. 

To  finish  a  fine  building — 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
If  he  could  possibly  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding. 
The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack 
And  proves  by  thumps  upon  your  back 

How  he  esteems  your  merit. 
Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it-. 


190  FRIENDSHIP. 

As  similarity  of  mind, 
Or  something  not  to  be  defin'd. 

First  fixes  our  attention : 
So  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practis'd  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 
Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan, 
''  Say  little,  and  hear  all  you  can." 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful — 
So  barren  sands  iiTibibe  the  showr. 
But  render  neithti  fruit  nor  flowr 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 

The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserv'd  as  he, 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  win  my  confidence  again — • 
I  will  by  no  means  entertain 

A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 

These  samples — for  alas  !  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a  taste 

Of  evils  yet  unmention'd — 
May  prove  the  task  a  task  indeed. 
In  which  'tis  much  if  we  succeed, 

However  well  intention'd. 

Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will  find 
Good  sense  and  knowledge  of  mankind 

To  be  at  least  expedient, 
And,  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 

A  principal  ingredient. 

The  noblest  Friendship  ever  shown 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known, 

Though  some  have  turn'd  and  turn'd  it ; 
And  whether  being  craz'd  or  blind, 
Or  seeing  with  a  biass'd  mind, 

Have  not,  it  seems,  discern'd  it. 


THE  MORALIZEIl  CORRECTED.        VJl 

O  Friendship  !  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  dehghts  Avhile  here  below 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere, 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  me ! 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED. 


A  HERMIT,  (or  if 'chance  you  hold 
That  title  now  too  trite  and  old ,) 
A  man,  once  young,  who  liv'd  retii'd 
As  hermit  could  have  well  desir'd, 
His  hours  of  study  clos'd  at  last, 
And  finsh'd  his  concise  repast, 
Stoppled  his  cruise,  replacd  his  book 
Within  his  customary  nook, 
And,  staff  in  hand,  set  fortii  to  share 
The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 
Like  Isaac,  with  a  mind  applied 
To  serious  thought  at  ev'ning  tide. 
Autumnal  rains  had  made  it  chill, 
And  from  the  trees  that  fring'd  his  hill. 
Shades  slanting  at  the  close  of  day 
Chill'd  more  his  else  delightful  way  , 
Distant  a  little  mile  he  spied 
A  western  bank's  still  sunny  side, 
And  right  toward  the  favour'd  place 
Proceeding  with  his  nimblest  pace, 
In  hope  to  bask  a  little  yet, 
JuBt  reach'd  it  when  the  sun  was  set 


192       THE  MORALIZEJl  CORRECTED. 

Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial  sirs ! 
Learns  something  from  whate'er  occurs — 
And  hence,  he  said,  my  mind  computes 
The  real  worth  of  man's  pursuits. 
His  object  chosen,  wealth,  or  fame, 
Or  other  sublunary  game, 
Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents  it  deck'd  with  ev'ry  hue 
That  can  seduce  him  not  to  spare 
His  pow'rs  of  best  exertion  there. 
But  youth,  health,  vigour,  to  expend 
On  so  desirable  an  end. 
Ere  long  approach  life's  ev'ning  shades, 
The  glow  that  fancy  gave  it  fades  ; 
And,  earn'd  too  late,  it  wants  the  grace 
That  first  engag'd  him  in  the  chaso. 

True,  answer'd  an  angelick  guide, 
Attendant  at  the  senior's  side — 
But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost, 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chaso  be  lost, 
Must  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that  which  call'd  his  ardour  forth. 
Trifles  pursu'd,  whate'er  th'  event, 
Must  cause  him  shame  or  discontent ; 
A  vicious  object  still  is  worse. 
Successful  there  he  wins  a  curse. 
But  he,  whom  e'en  in  life's  last  stage 
Endeavours  laudable  engage, 
Ts  paid,  at  least  in  peace  of  mind, 
And  sense  of  having  well  design'd ; 
And  if,  ere  ho  attain  his  end, 
His  sun  precipitate  descend, 
A  brighter  prize  than  that  he  meant 
Shall  recompense  his  mere  intent. 
No  virtuous  wish  can  bear  a  date 
Either  too  early  or  too  late. 


CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  STAPLETON, 
(now   MRS.  COURTNEY.) 


SHE  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met— 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again  ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 
Catharina  has  fled  Hke  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  !) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem, 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  ev'ning  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  1, 
Our  progress  was  often  delay'd 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paus'd  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charm'd  with  a  tone 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witness'd  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung, 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine, 
As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  iiito  numbers  of  mine. 
The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteem'd 

The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 
And  e'en  to  myself  never  seem'd 

So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 
Vor„  II.  17 


194  CATHARTNA 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 

In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 
Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 

Would  feel  herself  happier  here  ; 
For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 

On  the  banks  of  our  river,  I  know, 
Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 

So  it  is,  when  the  mind  is  endu'd 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from  above, 
Then  whether  embellish'd  or  rude 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love  ; 
The  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 
But  groves,  hills,  and  vallies,  diffuse 

A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Since,  then,  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 
May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice ! 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From  the  clatter  of  street-pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home  ; 
And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam  ; 
She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers, 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear, 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  here. 


THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 


THE  green  house  is  my  summer  seat ; 
My  shrubs  displacd  from  that  retreat 

Enjoyd  the  open  air  ; 
Two  Goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song, 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Liv'd  happy  pris'ners  there. 

They  sang  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolick  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew 

And  therefore  never  miss'd. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppress'd  ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  windows  seem'd  t'  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight : 

But  Tom  was  still  confin'd  : 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  gen'rous  and  sincere, 

To  leave  his  friend  behind. 
So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play. 
And  chirp,  and  kiss  he  seem'd  to  say, 

You  must  not  live  alone — 
Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand, 
Ti.'l  I,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 

Retnrn'd  him  to  his  own. 


196  THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

O  ye  who  never  taste  the  joys 
Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 
Blush,  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird, 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferr'd 

To  liberty  without. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


THERE  is  a  field,  through  which  I  often  pass 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kilwick's  echoing  wood, 
Where  oft  the  bitch  fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserv'd  to  solace  many  a  neighb'ring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier, 
Contusion,  hazarding  of  neck,  or  spine. 
Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 
A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  conceal'd 
Runs  in  a  bottom,  and  divides  the  field ; 
Oaks  intersperse  it,  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven- wood  instead ', 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  wat'ry  bourn, 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn  ; 
Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shiver'd  long  ago, 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below  ; 
A  hollow  scoop'd,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time. 
For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 

Not  yet  the  hawthorn  bore  her  berries  red, 
With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed  ; 
Nor  autumn  yet  had  brush'd  from  ev'ry  spray, 
With  her  chill  hand  the  mellow  leaves  away  ; 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM.  197 

But  corn  was  housd,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack ; 
Now  therefore  issu'd  forth  the  spotted  pack, 
With  tails  high  mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and  throats, 
With  a  whole  gamut  fill  d  of  heav'nly  notes, 
For  which,  alas  !  my  destiny  severe, 
Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear. 

The  sun,  accompUshing  his  early  march, 
His  lamp  now  planted  on  Heav'n's  topmost  arch, 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim, 
And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I  came. 
Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hill  and  dale  that  Reynard's  track  was  found, 
Or  with  the  high-raisd  horn's  melodious  clang 
All  Kilwick*  and  all  Dinglederry*  rang. 

Sheep  graz'd  the  field  ;  some  with  soft  bosom  press'd 
The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray'd  the  rest ; 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook, 
Struggling,  detain'd  in  many  a  petty  nook. 
All  seem'd  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  convey'd. 
To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

But  when  the  huntsman  with  distended  cheek, 
'Gan  make  his  instrument  of  musick  speak. 
And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear'd, 
The  sheep  recumbent,  and  the  sheep  that  graz'd, 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gaz'd, 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain. 
Then  cours'd  the  field  around,  and  cours'd  it  round 
*  again  ; 

But,  recollecting  with  a  sudden  thought, 
That  flight  in  circles  urg'd  advanc'd  them  nought, 
They  gather'd  close  around  the  old  pit's  brink. 
And  thought  again — but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

•  Two  woods  belonging  to  John  Throckmorton,  Esq. 
17- 


193  THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

The  man  to  solitude  accustom'd  long 
Perceives  in  every  thing  that  lives  a  tongue  , 
Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees, 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease  j 
After  long  drought  when  rains  abundant  fall, 
He  hears  the  herbs  and  flow'rs  rejoicing  all ; 
Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 
How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies ; 
But,  with  precision  nicci  still,  the  mind 
He  scans  of  ev'ry  locomotive  kind  ; 
Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  ev'ry  name, 
That  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame ; 
The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 
Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears  ; 
He  spells  them  true  by  intuition's  light, 
And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premis'd  was  needful  as  a  text, 
To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

Awhile  they  mus'd  ;  surveying  ev'ry  face, 
Thou  hadst  Bupposd  them  of  superiour  race  ; 
Their  periwigs  of  wool,  and  fears  combined 
Starap'd  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind, 
Tliat  sage  they  seem'd  as  lawyers  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out ; 
Or  academick  tutors,  teaching  youths, 
Sure  ne'er  to  want  them,  mathematick  truths  ; 
Wlien  thus  a  mutton,  statelier  than  the  rest, 
A  ram,  the  ewes  and  wethers  sad,  address'd. 

Friends  !  we  have  liv'd  too  long.     I  never  heard  ^ 
Sounds  such  as  these,  so  worthy  to  be  fear'd.  ^ 

Could  I  believe,  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  Earth's  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a  vent, 
And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise, 
With  all  these  hideous  bowlings  to  the  skies, 
I  could  be  much  compos'd,  nor  should  appear, 
For  such  a  caupe,  to  feel  the  sliffhtcst  fear. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM.  190 

Yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  roU'd 
All  night,  ine  resting  quiet  in  the  fold, 
Or  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 
I  could  expound  the  melancholy  tone  ; 
Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 
The  ass  ;  for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  stray 'd, 
And  being  lost,  perhaps,  and  wand'ring  wide, 
Might  be  suppos'd  to  clamour  for  a  guide. 
But  ah  i  those  dreadful  yells  what  soul  can  hear 
That  owns  a  carcass  and  not  quake  for  fear  ? 
Demons  produce  them  doubtless,  brazen-claw'd. 
And  fang  d  vdth  brass,  the  d&omons  are  abroad ; 
I  hold  it  therefore  wisest  and  most  fit, 
That,  life  to  save,  we  leap  into  the  pit. 

Him  answer'd  then  his  loving  mate  and  true, 
But  more  discreet  than  he,  a  Cambrian  ewe. 

How  !  leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save  ? 
To  save  our  life  leap  all  into  the  grave  ? 
For  can  we  find  it  less  ?  Contemplate  first 
The  depth  how  awful  !  falling  there  we  burst ; 
Or  should  the  brambles,  interpos'd,  our  fall 
In  part  abate,  that  happiness  were  small : 
For  with  a  race  like  theirs  no  chance  I  see 
Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  clad  as  we. 
Meantime,  n^ise  kills  not.     Be  it  Dapple's  bray, 
Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whose  it  may. 
And  rush  those  other  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues 
X)f  demons  utterd  from  whatever  lungs, 
Sounds  are  but  sounds,  and  till  the  cause  appear, 
We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 
CUne  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast 
From  Earth  or  Hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last. 

While  chus  she  spake,  I  fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
By  panting  dog,  tir'd  man,  and  spatter'd  horse, 
Through  mere    good  fortune,  took  a  diflPrent  course 


^00  BOADICEA. 

The  flock  grew  calm  again,  and  I  tae  road 
Foll'wing,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode. 
Much  wonder'd  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Such  cause  of  terrour  in  an  empty  sound, 
So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  desp'rate  steps.     The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  pass'd  away. 


BOADICEA 


1. 

WHEN  the  British  warriour  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 

Sougl*:,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods. 

[L 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief; 

Ev'ry  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief 

in. 

Princess  !  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 
'Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrours  of  our  toncrues. 


BOADICEA.  201 

Home  shall  perish — write  that  word 

In  the  blood  that  she  hast  spill'd ; 
Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr'd, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt 

V. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renown'd, 

Tramples  on  a  thousand  states  ; 
Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground — 

Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates  ! 

VI. 

Other  Romans  shall  arise. 

Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 
Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 

Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

VII. 
Then  tlie  progeny  that  springs 

From  the  forests  of  our  land, 
Arm'd  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 

Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

vni. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway ; 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

iNone  invincible  as  they. 

IX. 

Such  the  bard's  prophetick  words, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire. 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

X. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 

Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  ; 
Rush'd  to  battle,  fought,  and  died  ; 

Dying  hurl'd  them  at  the  foe. 


202  HEROISM 

Xi. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heav'n  awards  the  vengeance  due  • 
Empire  is  on  us  bestow'd, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 


HEROISM. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  Etna's  silent  fire 
Slept  unperceiv'd,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 
When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
She  tower'd  a  cloudcapt  pyramid  of  snow. 
No  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  groves  that  girdled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines, 
(Unfclt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines,) 
The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vam,  assur'd, 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matur'd. 
When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 
A  conflagration  lab'ring  in  her  womb. 
She  teem'd  and  heav'd  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise, 
And  hang  their  horrours  in  the  neighb'ring  skies, 
While  through  the  stygian  veil  that  blots  the  day, 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 
But  O  '  what  muse,  and  in  what  pow'rs  of  song, 
Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along  .'' 
Havock  and  devastation  in  the  van. 
It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man, 
Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests,  disappear, 
And  all  the  charms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 


HEROISM.  203 

Revolving  seasons  fruitless  as  they  pass, 
See  it  an  uninform'd  and  idle  mass ; 
Without  a  soil  t'  invite  the  tiller's  care, 
Or  blade  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair. 
Yet  time,  at  length,  (what  will  not  time  achieve  r) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
O  bliss  precarious  and  unsafe  retreats, 
O  charming  Paradise  of  short-liv'd  sweets  ! 
The  self-same  gale  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound : 
Agahi  the  mountain  feels  the  imprison 'd  foe, 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honour  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence  ; 
Behold  in  Etna's  emblematick  fires 
The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires. 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  domain, 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbours'  and  their  own. 
Ill-fated  race  !  how  deeply  must  they  iue 
Their  ©nly  crime,  vicinity  to  you  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad, 
"IPhrough  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destin'd  road  j 
At  ev'ry  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  ! 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son, 
Attend  to  finish  wliat  the  sword  begun  • 


204  HEROISM. 

And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  earn. 
And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds — but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heart-felt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below. 
Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees, 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease,) 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil. 
Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  gen'ral  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  tow'rs,  that  smok'd  upon  the  plain. 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  again. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqu'ror's  part ; 
A.nd  the  sad  lesson  must  be  learn'd  once  more, 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurelld  heroes,  say, 
But  .^itnas  of  the  suffring  world  ye  sway  ? 
Sweet  Nature,  stripped  of  her  embroider'd  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe  ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth  s  awful  bar. 
To  prove  you  there  destroyers  as  ye  are. 

O  place  me  in  some  Heav'n-protccted  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile: 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood, 
No  crested  warriour  dips  his  plume  in  blood  ; 
Where  Pow'r  secures  what  Industry  has  won  j 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone ; 
A  land,  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign  ? 


(205) 


On  a  mischievous  bull,  which  the  owner  op  him 

SOLD   AT  THE  AUTIIOR's  INSTANCE. 


GO — thou  art  all  unfit  to  share 

The  pleasures  of  this  place 
With  such  as  its  old  tenants  are, 

Creatures  of  gentler  race. 

The  squirrel  here  his  hoard  provides 

Aware  of  wintry  storms, 
And  wood-peckers  explore  the  sides 

Of  rugged  oaks  for  v/orms. 

The  sheep  here  smooths  the  knotted  thorn 

With  frictions  of  her  fleece ; 
And  here  I  wander  eve  and  morn, 

Like  her,  a  friend  to  peace. 

Ah ! — I  could  pity  thee  exil'd 

From  this  secure  retreat — 
JfWould  not  lose  it  to  be  styl'd 

The  happiest  of  the  great. 

But  thou  canst  taste  no  calm  delight  j 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 
Thy  magnanimity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess — therefore  go — 

I  care  not  whether  east  or  north, 

So  1  no  more  may  find  thee  ; 
The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee  forth, 

And  claps  the  gate  behind  thee. 
Vol.  II.  18 


(206) 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS,  1789. 

Written  in  commemoration  of  his  majesty's 
happy  recovery. 


1  RANSACK'D  for  a  theme  of  song, 
^luch  ancient  chronicle,  and  long  ; 
I  read  of  bright  embattled  fields. 
Of  trophied  helmets,  spears,  and  shields, 
Of  chiefs,  whose  single  arm  could  boast 
Prowess  to  dissipate  a  liost ; 
Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of  dream 
I  sought  an  eligible  theme, 
But  none  I  found,  or  found  them  shar'd 
Already  by  some  happier  bard. 

To  modern  times,  with  Truth  to  guide 
My  busy  search,  I  next  applied  ; 
Here  cities  won,  and  fleets  dispers'd, 
Urg'd  loud  a  claim  to  be  rchears'd, 
Deeds  of  unperishing  renown, 
Our  fathers'  triumphs  and  our  own. 

Thus,  as  the  bee,  from  bank  to  bow'r, 
Assiduous  sips  at  ev'ry  flow'r, 
But  rests  on  none,  till  that  be  found, 
Where  most  nectareous  sweets  abound — 
So  I,  from  theme  to  theme  display'd 
In  many  a  page  historick  stray 'd, 
Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight 
Contemplating  with  small  delight, 
(For  feats  of  sanguinary  hue 
T^ot  ahvays  glitter  in  my  view.) 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS.  207 

Till,  settling  on  the  current  year, 
1  found  the  far-sought  treasure  near  ; 
A  theme  for  poetry  divine, 
A  theme  t'  ennoble  even  mine, 
In  memorable  eighty-nine. 

The  spring  of  eighty-nine  shall  be 
An  era  chcrish'd  long  by  me, 
Which  joyful  I  will  oft  record, 
And  thankful  at  my  frugal  board  ; 
For  then  the  clouds  of  eighty-eight 
That  threatend  England's  trembling  state 
With  loss  of  what  she  least  could  spare, 
Her  sovereign's  tutelary  care, 
One  breath  of  Heaven,  that  cried — Restore '. 
Chas'd,  never  to  assemble  more  ; 
And  far  the  richest  crown  on  earth, 
If  valued  by  its  vrearer's  worth, 
The  symbol  of  a  righteous  reign 
Sat  fast  on  George's  brows  again. 

Then  peace  and  joy  again  possess'd 
Our  Queen's  long  agitated  breast ; 
Such  joy  and  peace  as  can  be  known 
By  sufFrers  like  herself  alone. 
Who,  losing,  or  supposing  lost, 
The  good  on  earth  they  valu'd  most, 
For  that  dear  sorrows'  sake  forego 
All  hope  of  happiness  below. 
Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize. 
And  flash  thanksgivings  to  the  skies ! 

f)  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles ! 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  chang'd  to  smiles, 
The  eyes  that  never  saw  thee  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine, 
Transports  not  chargeable  with  art 
Illume  the  land's  remotest  part. 


203  HYMN. 

And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 
Both  in  their  toils  and  at  their  sports, 
The  happiness  of  answer'd  pray'rs, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs. 

If  they  who  on  thy  state  attend, 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence  bend, 
'Tis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect ; 
But  she  is  something  more  than  queen, 
Who  is  belov'd  where  never  seen. 


HYMN, 

For  the  ivse  of  the  Sunday  School  at  Olney^ 

HEAR,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  prayr 

In  heav'n  thy  dwelling  place, 
From  infants  made  the  publick  care, 

And  taught  to  seek  thy  face. 

Thanks  for  thy  word  and  for  thy  day, 

And  grant  us,  we  implore, 
Never  to  waste,  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  sabbaths  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear — but  O  impart 

To  each  desires  sincere. 
That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart, 

And  learn  as  well  as  hear. 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  minds  engage 

Of  older  far  than  we, 
What  hope  that  at  our  heedless  age, 

Our  minds  should  e'er  be  free  .' 


STANZAS.  209 

Much  hope,  if  thou  our  spirits  take 

Under  thy  gracious  sway, 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make, 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  biiss  thy  word  bestows, 

A  sun  that  ne'er  declines, 
And  be  thy  mercies  shower'd  on  those, 

Who  plac'd  us  where  it  shines 


STANZAS 


Subjoined  to  the  Yearly  Bill  of  Mortality  of  the  Parish 
of  All- Saints,  JVorthampton,^  Anno  Domini  1787. 


Pallida  Mors,  cequo  pidsat  pede  pauperum  tahernaSj 

Regumque  turres.  Horace. 

Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls,  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 


WHILE  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  run 

The  Nen's  barge-laden  wave, 
All  these,  life's  rambling  journey  done, 

Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man,  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years  ? 
Did  famine  or  did  plague  prevail, 

That  so  much  death  appears  ? 

Composed  for  John  Cox,  parish  clerk  of  North amptem 

18^ 


:IU  BiLi.  OF  xMORTALlTY. 

No  ;  tliese  were  vif 'reus  as  their  sires, 

Nor  plague  nojr  famine  came.; 
This  annual  tribute  Death  requires, 

And  never  waves  his  clabii. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  stand, 

And  some  are  mark'd  to  fall ; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  command, 
And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

Green  as  the  bay-tree,  ever  green, 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 
The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I  seen, 

I  pass'd — and  they  were  gone. 

Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth, 

With  which  I  charge  my  page  } 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

No  present  health  can  health  ensure 

For  yet  an  hour  to  come  ; 
No  med'cine,  though  it  oft  can  cure, 

Can  always  balk  the  tomb. 

And  O  !  that  humble  as  my  lot. 

And  scorn'd  as  is  my  strain, 
These  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot, 

I  may  not  teach  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  clerk  with  all  his  heart, 

And  ere  he  quits  the  pen, 
Begs  i\ou  for  once  to  take  Ms  part, 

And  answer  all — Amen  ! 


,211) 
ON  A  SIMII/AR  OCCASION 

FOR   THE    YEAR    1788. 


Quod  adest,  memento 
Componere  cequus.     CcBtera  flumiiiis 
Ritu  fcrunter.  Horace. 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a  mere  feather  on  a  torrent's  tide. 


COULD  I,  from  Heav'n  inspir'd,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 

As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page,    '••^ 
And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past ;  -^^g^ 

How  each  would  trembling  v/ait  the  mournful  slieet 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die, 

And  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 

With  anxious  meaning,  heav'nward  turn  his  eye  I 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now  ; 

And  pray'r  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  musick-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler,  on  the  brink 
Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 

Forc'd  to  a  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 
Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 


212  BILL  Of  MORTALITY. 

Ah  eelf-deceiv'd !  Could  I  prophetick  say 

Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 
The  rest  might  then  seem  privileg'd  to  play  ; 

But  naming  jione,  the  voice  now  speaks  to  ALL. 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound  and  airy  oer  the  sunny  glade — 

One  falls — the  rest,  wide  scatter'd  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warn'd, 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 

A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorn'd. 
Die  self-accus'd  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste  !  for  which  no  after-thrift  atones, 
The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 

Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones, 
Bat  tears  of  godly  grief  ne'er  flow  within. 

Learn  then  ye  living  !  by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  instructers  true, 

That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot, 
And  the  next  op'ning  grave  may  yawn  for  you. 


(213) 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR    THE    YEAR    1789. 


....Placidaque  ihi  demum  morte  qnievit.  ViFC 

There  calm  at  length  he  breath'd  his  soul  away. 


'•'  O  MOST  delightful  hour  by  man 

Experienc'd  here  below, 
The  hour  that  terminates  his  span. 

His  folly,  and  his  wo  ! 

Worlds  should  not  bribe  me  back  to  tread 

Again  life's  dreary  waste. 
To  see  again  my  day  o'erspread 

With  all  the  gloomy  past. 

My  home  henceforth  is  in  the  skies, 

Earth,  seas,  and  sun,  adieu  ! 
All  Heav'n  unfolded  to  my  eyes, 

I  have  no  sight  for  you." 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possess'd 

Of  faith's  suppc^rtmg  rod, 
Then  breath'd  his  soul  into  its  rest, 

The  bosom  of  his  God. 

He  was  a  man  among  the  few 

Sincere  on  virtue's  side  ; 
And  all  his  strength  from  Scripture  drew, 

To  hourly  use  applied. 


214  BILL  OF  MORTALITY. 

That  rule  he  priz'd,  by  that  he  fear'd^ 
He  hated,  hop'd,  and  lov'd  ; 

Nor  ever  frown'd,  or  sad  appear'd 
But  when  his  heart  had  rov'd. 

For  he.  was  frail  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within  ; 
But   when  he  felt  it  heav'd  a  sigh, 

And  loath'd  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  liv'd  Aspasio  ;  and  at  last 
Caird  up  from  Earth  to  Heav'n, 

The  gulf  of  death  triumphant  pass'd, 
By  gales  of  blessing  driv'n. 

His  joys  be  mine,  each  Reader  cries, 
When  my  last  hour  arrives  : 

They  shall  be  yours,  my  verse  replies, 
Such  coily  be  your  lives. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR    THE    YEAR    1790. 


j\'*e  commonentem  recta  sperne.  Buchanan. 

Despise  not  my  good  counsel. 


HE  who  sits  from  day  to  day, 
"Where  the  prison'd  lark  is  hung, 

Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay. 
Hardly  knows  that  he  has  sung". 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  2i; 

Where  tlie  watchman  in  his  round 

Nightly  Ufts  his  voice  on  high, 
None,  accustora'd  to  the  sound, 

Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verseraan  I  and  clerk, 

Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 
Death  at  hand — yourselves  his  mark- 

And  the  foes  unerring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I  come. 

Publishing  to  all  aloud — 
Soon  the  grave  must  be  your  home, 

And  your  only  suit,  a  shroud. 

But  the  monitory  strain, 

Oft  repeated  in  your  ears, 
Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 

Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 

Can  a  truth,  by  all  confess'd 

Of  such  magnitude  and  weight,  * 

Grow,  by  l)cing  oft  impress'd, 

Trivial  as  a  parrot's  prate  ? 

Pleasure's  call  attention  wins, 

Hear  it  often  as  we  may ; 
New  as  ever  seem  our  sins, 

Though  committed  every  day. 

Death  and  Judgment,  Heaven  and  Hell — 

These  alone,  so  often  heard, 
No  more  move  us  than  the  bell, 

When  some  stranger  is  interr'd. 

O  then,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 

Cover  us  from  every  eye. 
Spirit  of  instruction  come. 

Make  us  learn,  that  wc  must  die. 


(216) 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1792. 


Felix,  qui  potvit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 
Atque  metus  omnes  el  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Jlcherontis  atari ! 

Virg 
Happy  the  mortal,  who  has  trac'd  effects 
Ta  their  first  cause,  cast  fear  beneath  his  feet, 
Ajid  death,  and  roarin^  Hell's  voracious  fires ! 


THANKLESS  for  favours  from  on  high 
Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon ; 

Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 
Would  he  improve  the  boon. 

But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 

His  best  concerns  aright. 
Would  gladly  stretch  Ufe's  little  span 

To  ages,  if  he  might. 

To  ages  in  a  world  of  pain, 

To  ages,  where  he  goes 
Gall'd  by  affliction's  heavy  chain, 

And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human  heart, 

Enamour'd  of  its  harm  1 
Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so  much  smart, 

And  still  has  pow'r  to  charm. 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  217 

Whence  has  the  world  her  magick  pow'r  ? 

Why  deem  we  death  a  foe  ? 
Recoil  from  weary  life's  best  hour, 

And  covet  longer  wo  ? 

The  cause  is  Conscience — Conscience  oft 

Her  tale  of  guilt  renews  ; 
Her  voice  is  terrible,  though  soft, 

And  dread  of  death  ensues. 

Then,  anxious  to  be  longer  spar'd, 

Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath  : 
All  evils  then  seem  light,  corapar'd 

With  the  approach  of  Death. 

'Tis  judgment  shakes  him,  there's  the  feat 

That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay  : 
He  has  incurr'd  a  long  arrear, 

And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay ! — follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid : 

His  death  your  peace  ensures  ; 
Think  on  the  grave  where  he  was  laid, 
And  calm  descend  to  yours. 
Vol.  II.  19 


(218) 
ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1793. 


De  sacris  autcm  hoc  sic  una  sententia,  ut  conserventur. 

Cic.  de  Leg. 
But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentiment,  that 
things  sacred  be  inviolate. 

He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 

And  all  are  dead  beside  ; 
For  other  source  than  God  is  none 

Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 

His  love  as  best  we  may : 
To  make  his  precepts  our  delight, 

His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a  narrow  ring 

Of  giddy  joys  compris'd, 
Is  falsely  nam'd,  and  no  such  thing, 

But  rather  death  disguis'd. 

Can  life  in  them  deserve  the  name, 

Who  only  live  to  prove 
For  what  poor  toys  they  can  disclaim 

An  endless  life  above. 

Who  much  diseas'd,  yet  nothing  feel ; 

Much  menac'd,  nothing  dread  ; 
Have  wounds,  which  only  God  can  heal. 

Yet  never  ask  his  aid  .'' 


BILL  OF  MORTALITY.  2J9 

Who  deem  his  house  a  useless  place, 

Faith  want  of  common  sense  ; 
And  ardour  in  the  Christian  race, 

A  hypocrite's  pretence  ? 

Who  trample  order  ;  and  the  day, 

Which  God  asserts  his  own, 
Dishonour  with  unhallow'd  play, 

And  worship  chance  alone  ? 

If  scorn  of  God's  commands,  impress'd 

On  word  and  deed,  imply 
The  better  part  of  man  unbless'd 

With  life  that  cannot  die  ; 

Such  want  it,  and  that  want  uncur'd 

Till  man  resigns  his  breath, 
Speaks  him  a  criminal,  assur'd 

Of  everlasting  death. 

Sad  period  to  a  pleasant  course  ' 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 
Sabbaths  profan'd  without  remorso, 

And  mercy  cast  awaj. 


(  220  ) 
INSCRIPTION, 

FOR  THE  TOMB  OF    MR.  HAMILTON. 


PAUSE  here,  and  think  :  a  monitory  rhyme 
Demands  one  moment  of  thy  fleeting  time. 

Consult  life's  silent  clock,  thy  bounding  vein  ; 
Seems  it  to  say — "  Health  here  has  long  to  reign  ?' 
Hast  thou  the  vigour  of  thy  youth  ?  an  eye 
That  beams  nelight  ?  a  heart  untaught  to  sigh .' 
Yet  fear.     Youth,  ofttimes  healthful  and  at  ease. 
Anticipates  a  day  it  never  sees  ; 
And  many  a  tomb,  like  Hamilton's,  aloud 
Exclaims,  *'  Prepare  thee  for  an  early  shroud.'*^ 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 


HERE  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue.. 

Nor  swifter  grayhound  follow, 
Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 

Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  halloo. 

Old  Tincy,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nurs'd  with  tender  care. 

And  to  domestick  bounds  confin'd^ 
Was  still  a  v.'ild  Jack-hare 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE.  22 1 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  ev'ry  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite, 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 

And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw ; 
Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 

With  sand  to  so^ur  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regal'd. 

On  pippen's  russet  peel, 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  fail'd, 

Slic'd  carrot  pleas'd  him  welL 

A  turkey  caroet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  ne  lov'd  tc  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn^ 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  v/as  at  ev'ning  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear. 
But  most  before  approaching  showVs, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near- 
Eight  years  and  five  round  rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  ev'ry  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts,  that  made  it  ache, 

And  forc^  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  this  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come 
19^ 


a22  EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM, 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks, 

From  which  no  care  can  save, 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 

Must  soon  partalve  his  grave. 


EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM. 


Hie  etiam  jacet, 
Qui  totum  novennium  vixit. 


Siste  paulisper, 

Qui  praeteriturus  es, 

Et  tecum  sic  reputa — 

Hunc  neque  canis  venaticus. 

Nee  plumbum  missile, 

Nee  laqueus, 

Nee  imbres  nimii, 

Confecere  : 

Tamen  mortuus  est — 

Et  moriar  ego. 


(  2-^3  } 

The  following  account  of  the  treatment  of  his 
hares  was  inserted  by  mr.  cowper  in  the  gen- 
tleman's magazine,  whence  it  is  transcribed. 


IN  the  year  1774,  being  much  indisposed  both  in 
mind  and  body,  incapable  of  diverting  myself  either 
with  company  or  books,  and  yet  in  a  condition  that 
made  some  diversion  necessary,  I  was  glad  of  any 
thing  that  would  engage  my  attention  without  fa- 
tiguing it.  The  children  of  a  neighbour  of  mine  had 
a  leveret  given  them  for  a  plaything  ;  it  was  at  that 
time  about  three  months  old.  Understanding  better 
how  to  tease  the  poor  creature  than  to  feed  it,  and 
soon  becoming  weary  of  their  charge,  they  readily  con- 
sented that  their  father,  who  saw  it  pining  and  grow- 
ing leaner  every  day,  should  offer  it  to  my  acceptance. 
I  was  wilhng  enough  to  take  the  prisoner  under  my 
protection,  perceiving  that,  in  the  management  of  such 
an  animal,  and  in  the  attempt  to  tame  it.  I  should  find 
just  that  sort  of  employment  which  ray  case  required. 
It  was  soon  known  among  the  neighbours  that  I  was 
pleased  with  the  present ;  and  the  consequence  was, 
that  in  a  short  time  I  had  as  many  leverets  oiFered  to 
rae  as  would  have  stocked  a  paddock.  I  undertook  the 
care  of  three,  which  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  here 
distinguish  by  the  names  I  gave  them— Puss,  Tiney, 
and  Bess.  Notwithstanding  the  two  feminine  appella- 
tives, I  must  inform  you  that  they  were  all  males.  Im- 
mediately commencing  carpenter,  I  built  them  houses 
to  sleep  in  ;  each  had  a  separate  apartment,  so  contriv- 
ed, that  their  ordure  would  paos  through  the  bottom 
of  it ;  an  earthen  pan  placed  under  each  received  what- 
soever fell,  which  being  duly  emptied  and  washed, 
they  were  thus  kept  perfectly  sweet  and  clean.  In  the 
daytime  they  had  the  range  of  a  ha.ll.  and  at  night  re- 


(  224  ) 
tired,  eacli  to  his  own  bed,  never  intruding  into  that  of 
another. 

Puss  grew  presently  famiUar,  would  leap  into  my 
lap,  raise  himself  upon  his  hinder  feet,  and  bite  the 
hair  from  my  temples.  He  would  suiier  me  to  take 
him  up,  and  to  carry  him  about  in  my  arms,  and  has 
more  than  once  fallen  fast  asleep  upon  my  knee.  He 
was  ill  three  days,  during  which  time  I  nursed  him, 
kept  him  apart  from  his  fellows,  that  they  might  not 
molest  him,  (for,  like  many  other  wild  animals,  they 
persecute  one  of  their  own  species  that  is  sick,)  and  by 
constant  care,  and  trying  him  with  a  variety  of  herbs, 
restored  him  to  perfect  health.  No  creature  could  be 
more  grateful  than  my  patient  after  his  recovery ;  a 
sentiment  which  he  most  significantly  expressed  by 
licking  my  hand,  first  the  back  of  it,  then  the  palm, 
then  every  finger  separately,  then  between  all  the  fin- 
gers, as  if  anxious  to  leave  no  part  of  it  unsaluted  ;  a 
ceremony  which  he  never  performed  but  once  again 
■upon  a  similar  occasion.  Finding  him  extremely  tract- 
able, I  made  it  my  custom  to  carry  him  always  after 
breakfast  into  the  garden,  where  he  hid  himself  gene- 
rally under  the  leaves  of  a  cucumber  vine,  sleeping  or 
chewing  the  cud  till  evening  :  in  the  leaves  also  of 
that  vine  he  found  a  favourite  repast.  I  had  not  long 
habituated  him  to  this  taste  of  liberty,  before  he  began 
to  be  impatient  for  the  return  of  the  time  when  he 
might  enjoy  it.  He  would  invite  me  to  the  garden  by 
drumming  upon  my  knee,  and  by  a  look  of  such  ex- 
pression, as  it  w^s  not  possible  to  misinterpret.  If  this 
rhetorick  did  not  immediately  succeed,  he  would  take 
the  skirt  of  my  coat  between  his  teeth,  and  pull  at  it 
with  all  his  force.  Thus  Puss  might  be  said  to.be  per- 
fectly tamed,  the  shyn'Hss  of  his  nature  was  done  away, 
and  on  the  whole  it  was  visible  by  many  sj'mptoms, 
which  1  have  not  room  to  enumerate,  that  he  was  hap- 
pier m  human  society  than  when  shut  up  with  his  na« 
tural  companion.s. 


(  2-25  ) 

Not  so  IHney  ;  upon  him  the  kindest  treatment  iiad 
not  the  least  effect.  He,  too,  was  sick,  and  in  his  sick- 
ness had  an  equal  share  of  my  attention  ;  but  if  after 
his  recovery  I  took  the  liberty  to  stroke  him,  he  would 
grunt,  strike  with  his  fore  feet,  spring  forward,  and 
bite.  He  was,  however,  very  entertaining  in  his  way  ; 
even  his  surliness  was  matter  of  mirth  ;  and  in  his 
play  he  preserved  such  an  air  of  gravity,  and  perform- 
ed his  feats  with  such  a  solemnity  of  manner,  that  in 
liim,  too,  I  had  an  agreeable  companion. 

Bess,  who  died  soon  after  he  was  full  grown,  and 
whose  death  was  occasioned  by  his  being  turned  into 
Jiis  box,  which  had  been  washed,  while  it  was  yet  damp, 
was  a  hare  of  great  humour  and  drollery.  Puss  was 
tamed  by  gentle  usage  ;  Tiney  was  not  to  be  tamed  at 
all :  and  Bess  had  a  courage  and  confidence  that  made 
him  tame  from  the  beginning.  I  always  admitted  them 
into  the  parlour  after  supper,  when  the  carpet  afford- 
ing their  feet  a  firm  hold,  they  would  frisk,  and  bound 
and  play  a  thousand  gambols,  in  which  Bess,  being  re- 
markably strong  and  fearless,  v/as  always  superiour  to 
the  rest,  and  proved  himself  the  Vestris  of  the  party. 
One  evening  the  cat,  being  in  the  room,  had  the  hardi- 
ness to  pat  Bess  upon  the  cheek,  an  indignity  which 
he  resented  by  drimiming  upon  her  back  with  such 
violence,  that  the  cat  was  happy  to  escape  from  under 
his  paws,  and  hide  herself. 

I  describe  these  animals  as  having  each  a  charac- 
ter of  his  own.  Such  they  were  in  fact,  and  their 
countenances  were  so  expressive  of  that  character, 
that,  when  I  looked  only  on  the  face  of  either,  I  im- 
mediately knew  which  it  was.  It  is  said  that  a  shep- 
herd, however  numerous  his  flock,  soon  becomes  so 
familiar  with  their  features,  that  he  can,  by  that  indi- 
cation only,  distinguish  each  from  all  the  rest ;  and 
yet,  to  a  common  observer,  the  difference  is  hardly 
perceptible.  I  doubt  not  that  the  same  discrimination 
in  the  cast  of  countenances  would  be  discoverable  iu 


(  226  ) 
hares,  and  am  persuaded  that  amon^  a  thousand  of 
them,  no  two  could  be  found  exactly  similar  )  a  circum- 
stance little  suspected  by  those  who  have  not  had  op- 
portunity to  observe  it.  These  creatures  have  a  sin- 
gular sagacity  in  discovering  the  minutest  alteration 
that  is  made  in  the  place  to  which  they  are  accustom- 
ed, and  instantly  apply  tlieir  nose  to  the  examinj^on 
of  a  new  object.  A  small  hole  being  burnt  in  the  car- 
pet, it  was  mended  with  a  patch,  and  that  patch  in  a 
moment  underwent  the  strictest  scrutiny.  They  seem, 
too,  to  be  very  much  directed  by  the  smell  in  the  choice 
of  their  favourites  ;  to  some  persons,  though  they  saw 
them  daily,  they  could  never  be  reconciled,  and  would 
even  scream  when  they  attempted  to  touch  them  ;  but 
a  miller  coming  in,  engaged  their  affections  at  once  : 
his  powdered  coat  had  charms  that  were  irresistible. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  my  intimate  acquaintance  with 
these  specimens  of  the  kind,  has  taught  me  to  hold  the 
sportsman's  amusement  in  abhorrence  :  he  little  knows 
what  amiable  creatures  he  persecutes,  of  what  grati- 
tude they  are  capable,  how  cheerful  they  are  in  their 
spirits,  what  enjoyment  they  have  of  life,  and  that, 
impressed  as  they  seem  with  a  peculiar  dread  of  man, 
it  is  only  because  man  gives  them  peculiar  cause  for  it. 

That  I  may  not  be  tedious,  I  will  just  give  a  short 
summary  of  these  articles  of  diet  that  suit  them  best. 

I  take  it  to  be  a  general  opinion  that  they  graze,  but 
it  is  an  erroneous  one  ;  at  least  grass  is  not  their  sta- 
ple ;  they  seem  rather  to  use  it  medicinally,  soon  quit- 
ting it  for  leaves  of  almost  any  kind.  Sowthlstle,  dan- 
delion, and  lettuce,  are  their  favourite  vegetables,  es- 
pecially the  last.  I  discovered  by  accident  that  fine 
white  sand  is  in  great  estimation  with  them ;  I  sup- 
pose as  a  digestive.  It  happened  that  I  was  cleaning 
a  bird  cage  while  the  hares  were  with  me  :  I  placed  a 
pot  filled  with  such  sand  upon  the  floor,  which,  being 
at  once  directed  to  by  a  strong  instinct,  they  devoured 
vnraciouslv  :  sinr^e  that  time  I  iiave   o-enerallv  taken 


care  to  see  them  well  supplied  with  it.  They  account 
green  corn  a  delicacy,  both  blade  and  stalk,  but  the  ear 
they  seldom  eat :  straw  of  any  kind,  especially  wheat 
straw,  is  another  of  their  dainties ;  they  will  feed 
greedily  upon  oats,  but  if  furnished  with  clean  straw, 
never  want  them  ;  it  serves  thern  also  for  a  bed.  and 
if  sHaken  up  daily,  v/ill  be  kept  sweet  and  dry  for  a 
considerable  time.  They  do  not  indeed  require  aro- 
matick  herbs,  but  v/ill  eat  a  small  quantity  of  them 
with  great  relish,  and  are  particularly  fond  of  the  plant 
called  musk  :  they  seem  to  resemble  sheep  in  this,  that 
if  their  pasture  be  too  succulent,  they  are  very  subject 
to  the  rot :  to  prevent  which,  I  always  made  bread 
their  principal  nourishment,  and,  filhng  a  pan  with  it 
cut  into  small  squares,  placed  it  every  evening  in  their 
chambers,  for  they  feed  only  at  evening,  and  in  the 
night :  during  the  winter,  when  vegetables  were  not 
to  be  got,  I  mingled  this  mess  of  bread  with  shreds  of 
carrot,  adding  to  it  the  rind  of  apples  cut  extremely 
thin  ;  for,  though  they  are  fond  of  the  paring,  the  ap- 
ple itself  disgusts  them.  These,  hov»^ever,  not  being 
a  sufficient  substitute  for  the  juice  of  summer  herbs, 
they  must  at  this  time  be  supplied  with  water  ;  but  so 
placed,  that  they  cannot  overset  it  into  their  beds.  I 
must  not  omit,  that  occasionally  they  are  much  pleas- 
ed with  twigs  of  hawthorn  and  of  the  common  brier, 
eating  even  the  very  wood  when  it  is  of  considerable 
thickness. 

Bess,  I  have  said,  died  young ;  Tiney  lived  to  be 
nine  years  old,  and  died  at  last.  I  have  reason  to 
think,  of  some  hurt  in  his  loins  by  a  fall :  Puss  is  still 
living,  and  has  just  completed  his  tenth  year,  disco- 
vering no  signs  of  decay,  nor  even  of  age,  except  that 
he  is  grown  more  discreet  and  less  frolicksome  than 
he  was.  I  cannot  conclude  without  observing,  that  I 
have  lately  introduced  a  dog  to  his  acquaintance — a 
spaniel  that  had  never  seen  a  hare,  to  a  hare  that  had 
never  seen  a  soaniel.    I  did  it  v;ith  great  caution;  but 


(  228) 
there  was  no  real  need  of  it.  Puss  discovered  no  to- 
ken of  fear,  nor  Marquis  the  least  symptom  of  hostility. 
There  is,  therefore,  it  should  seem,  no  natural  antipa- 
thy between  dog-  and  hare,  but  the  pursuit  of  the  one 
occasions  the  flight  of  the  other,  and  the  dog  pursues 
because  he  is  trained  to  it ;  they  eat  bread  at  the  same  ■ 
time  out  of  the  same  hand,  and  are  in  all  resjftcts 
sociable  and  friendly. 

I  should  not  do  complete  justice  to  my  subject,  did 
I  not  add,  that  they  have  no  ill  scent  belonging  to 
them  ;  that  they  are  indefatigably  nice  in  keeping 
themselves  clean,  for  which  purpose  nature  has  fur- 
nished them  with  a  brush  under  each  foot ;  and  that 
they  are  never  infested  by  any  vermin. 
May  28,  1784. 


Memorandum  found  aviong  Mr.  Cowper's  papers. 

Tuesday,  March  9, 1786.     ^ 
This  day  died  poor  Puss,  aged  eleven  years  eleven 
months.     He  died  between  twelve  and  one  at  noon,  of 
mere  old  age,  and  apparently  without  pain. 


END  OF  VOL.  ir. 


f 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REG'ONAl 


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